Ode to Being Single

Forty-nine fucking years it took me, glimpses here and there along the way,

to finally stop expecting anything from anyone.

No love wrapped up in someone else’s sloppy words.

No dopamine hit from a random “hey” that goes nowhere.

No more wondering why Brandon from Hinge ghosted,

or why Jason from Bumble only sends one-line replies filled with typos.

(It’s You are beautiful, Jason! Not Your beautiful :/ )

No.

I get all of that from me.

I don’t question anyone’s choices anymore. My choices are about me.

It might sound egocentric, maybe even a little narcissistic,

but I adore having the house to myself.

Eating Nutella straight from the jar.

Wrapping my naked body in a blanket after a shower,

watching the trashiest TV with a smile,

and feeling the warm hug of my own company.

Have you ever eaten chicken nuggets

without having to offer anyone else one?

Opened a book just because you love it?

Or gone for a walk simply because it feels good?

I’ll cook myself a restaurant-worthy dish,

plate it like a pro,

and while I eat, my self-talk hypes me up so hard

I start brainstorming which cuisines my imaginary restaurant empire will cover.

No one rushes me when I’m late to a birthday.

No one comments on my outfit.

I can fill up my car wearing PJs

because it’s Sunday and fuck getting dressed.

No one will complete me, or save me, or “stand by me.”

I will.

I am complete. I am safe.

And I stand by me.

I squeeze my own oranges if I have a cold

vitamin C and mum’s legacy.

I know how to look after myself,

without the disappointment of lying next to someone

who can’t show the smallest sympathy,

who chooses to get drunk the night before

so now you’re the one cleaning up his vomit

and tending to his fucking hangover

while your sickness sits second on the priority list.

No more pretending to care about the footy highlights.

No more downplaying my love for golf to protect someone’s fragile ego.

I’m a badass bitch who sleeps starfish on a queen bed,

who feels her feelings hard, so hard they scare people,

but they don’t scare me. Not anymore.

It took me 49 years to climb this Everest,

but now I’m here.

At the summit. Alone.

And it’s fucking wonderful.

Sure, love might come, probably when I least expect it.

Or it won’t.

I’m good with both.

Because the path here has been wonderfully hard

and ridiculously rewarding.

Singlehood has saved me from shallow conversations,

from the chaos of someone else’s noise,

from the gross chewing, the relentless snoring.

Sleep is sweeter alone, after a hot bath and a good book.

And freedom tastes like this:

playing guitar badly and loudly,

with no one judging my music taste or my lack of tuning.

Never compromising on rap I don’t like.

Never cooking for two when I only wanted one.

Even the things that once felt scary

now thrill me:

walking into a bar on a Wednesday night,

ordering an espresso martini

because I fucking can.

And yes, I know it’s a work day.

But who cares?

Life is short, and espresso martinis are just so damn yummy.

So here it is, my ode to being single:

a grateful love letter to myself.

Because whether you’re partnered or not,

you are always alone in some way.

And if you don’t embrace your own company,

if you don’t love yourself in the mess and the glam

in the bun-on-a-Thursday because your gym routine

didn’t match the wash-hair schedule,

and in the full glam on a Monday

because why the fuck not?

Why not shock your co-workers now and then

with how stunning you are?

Then you’ve missed it.

The lesson, the magic, the point.

Diva both ways.

Living loud, soft, messy, brilliant.

Because life isn’t just about being loved.

It’s about loving yourself.

It’s about being alive.