So I remained single for a year. That year then turned into fifteen months, and before I knew it, a year and a half had passed. As I wrote earlier, I dipped my big toe into the dating pool via dating apps such as Tinder with no success. I was frustrated and incredibly lonely. I know. The dreaded L word; it’s something we’re not supposed to utter aloud.
Owning up to being alone? That’s fine because folks hearing this will often go into Build-A-Bear Hospital mode and try to fix you. Meaning they’ll fix you up (whether you asked to be or not) with wack choices that make you go, “Oh, you think this is a damn episode of Storage Wars, and I like to spend my time and money gambling on trash and seeing if I can make this person better.” Simply put, it seems that sometimes, to people in relationships, being alone is a curable disease for folks sans baes. But loneliness? That doesn’t feel hopeful. It reminds us that we, generally speaking, come into this world solo, walk through life as individuals, and will most likely die solo. Not fun stuff to think about, let alone talk about, which is why loneliness is basically the dentist appointment of life: something to be avoided at all costs.
But for me, I didn’t necessarily want to avoid loneliness. I just wanted less of it. My career took off shortly after my breakup, which ate up some of my alone time, as did catching up with family and friends and working on myself, but there are only so many places to go or activities I could do or freelance jobs I could take on. Eventually, I’d have to go home, alone. I’d have to sleep in a bed by myself. I couldn’t ignore the pangs of sadness I felt from not having a partner in crime. This is not to say I didn’t enjoy being an independent woman who wasn’t defined by who I was with—I did. However, I missed being a girlfriend, and the moments where being single and alone felt like literally the worst thing on the planet were becoming more frequent. I imagine a huge part of my sadness was due to societal conditioning.
It’s no secret that single women and men are treated and viewed differently. Single dudes are encouraged to be like the Greenpeace folks who stand on the street with clipboards, spreading cheer, but instead of asking passersby to help save the whales, single men are asking to pass their sauseege around like peanut brittle samples at Sam’s Club. Meanwhile, unattached women, especially once they reach a certain age, are jokingly referred to as “cat ladies,” “spinsters,” “old maids,” and are understood to be as thirsty as Gollum was about that damn ring in The Lord of the Rings. Only for women is being someone’s partner considered an achievement, a key part of their identity, and the cure-all for loneliness. Sure, I know you can be alone as hell in a relationship, but I still hoped that finding a boyfriend would help keep some of the judgments or pity from other people at bay. And it’s not just friends and strangers who sometimes weigh in with the doom and gloom.
There are endless studies and countless experts warning us about how detrimental loneliness and being by yourself is. In an interview with Fortune magazine, John Cacioppo, the coauthor of Loneliness: Human Nature and the Need for Social Connection, concluded that being lonely has a negative physical and psychological effect on people’s health and offered up this Debbie Downer of a nugget: “Well-being goes down, depressive symptoms go up, your likelihood of developing mental and affective disorders increases.” Great! Why don’t I just call up Marina Abramović so we can collabo on an art installation piece at the Museum of Modern Art entitled Sad Bitch, which is just me sobbing in a dark corner and listening to Tori Amos while froyo dribbles out of my mouth? Okay, okay. Maybe I’m overreacting. There’s gotta be more layers to this whole loneliness thing. So let’s keep digging, shall we?
The 125th Annual Convention of the American Psychological Association went down last year, and research was presented showing a connection between loneliness and premature death. What the hell?!?! This is worse than what that John mofo said! Anyway, at this convention, Julianne Holt-Lunstad, a professor of psychology at Brigham Young University, basically offered up an entrée of sadness served two ways. She did two meta-analyses on how one’s health is affected by connection or lack thereof with people. In the first one, she looked at 148 studies that comprised more than three hundred thousand people. The big discovery? People with good social connections (both platonic and romantic) had a 50 percent lower risk of dying early compared to those who don’t. As for the second analysis of seventy studies, she found that loneliness, isolation, and living alone all had a significant effect on a person’s risk for early death. So, in summary, if you’re rolling solo through life, you’re on the fast track to be clanging on the cowbell while the Angel of Death sings “(Don’t Fear) The Reaper” in the afterlife. But it’s not like anyone is taking this damning data to heart, right? Wrong.
Everyday Health conducted their own survey of three thousand women in the US and discovered that a third of them are more afraid of loneliness than a cancer diagnosis. That’s insane and goes to show just how scientific research and societal pressure make women, in particular, believe that singledom is a worst-case scenario. While I wasn’t in that camp, a year and a half of not dating was enough for me to take another stab at hunting for a boo and I joined Bumble.
A few weeks later, a friend of mine named Michelle Buteau, who is gorgeous and hilarious, has tons of freckles, and is happily married, was in Vancouver shooting a television show, and she invited me and our friend Amy, another talented black woman in Hollywood who was fresh off a breakup of her own, to the Couv (no one calls it that) for an impromptu girls’ weekend. Amy is based in LA, and I was working in LA at the time, so we figured a quick trip to Canada would be fun and that the Canuck Bumble pool might be better than the LA one.
Long story short, it wasn’t. Amy found a cutie to flirt and make out with; I, however, ended up with bubkes. Seriously, the most viable option I had was a divorced dad who had his kids for the weekend but was open to going on an early-morning hike before getting back on dad duty. I was like, “Cool, cool, cool. Is Dateline running low on the broads who are too trusting and get killed by strange men who want to squeeze in killing somebody before racing back home to give their kids some Go-GURT? Hard pass.” So no fun dates for me that weekend, but as I was boarding my flight back to LA, I got a message on Bumble from a guy who seemed normal. I let him know I was leaving town. He seemed bummed, and I figured that, at the very least, we would text for a little bit and it’d be a nice distraction. It turned into more as we talked on the phone every day, and he eventually decided he was going to come to LA to visit me. Not going to lie, I was pretty excited since I hadn’t really liked or sparked with anyone since my last relationship. The next day, we had slightly less contact than usual, which was fine by me because I was swamped with work. Then, the next day, I didn’t hear from him at all. The following day, he sent me a long message about being broken, that he couldn’t do this but thinks I’m amazing—blah, blah, blah, you can fill in the rest. I was devastated. Way more than I should have been for someone I had only chatted with for a couple of weeks. I’m talking being livid, hashing this out with friends, crying, the whole works. And deep down, even I knew this reaction was melodramatic, and that’s when I had a lightbulb moment that life coaches always talk about.
The entire time I had been single following the breakup, I was working on myself . . . but only kind of. During that time, I acknowledged that I can be an enabler, a fixer, and allow my partner to lean on me in instances when he should stand on his own two feet. I accepted that sometimes there are no bad guys in a relationship. Sometimes you love hard, fight for the relationship, and it just comes down to it not being right. There’s no one to blame, no one to be angry at, just a matter of people growing and changing, and the best you can do is just try to grow together, have fun, and work on yourself. And, finally, I grew to believe that a relationship isn’t a complete waste of time just because it doesn’t result in marriage. All of this is fine and dandy and important to realize. However, it’s all in relation to someone else and doesn’t have anything to do with
me. Furthermore, none of it gave me insight into why my reaction to a nonstarter situation with a Bumble rando was almost the same as to my four-year relationship ending. And that’s when I had to face this truth: On some level, I viewed being single and feeling lonely every once in a while as a death sentence.
I never did the work to learn how to be fine with loneliness, to be comfortable with myself. This is not to say that I’m a serial dater. Far from it. My dating history has two extremes: I’m either in a relationship or single for a very long stretch of time. And during the times when I’m single, I’m busy being a workaholic or chilling with friends and family. Plus, as I have done ever since I was a teen who never got the guy, I’d spend a lot time in my head, fantasizing about having a boyfriend, hoping some guy was going to love me. Never once did I fantasize about me loving me or even me liking me. Not once did I ever sit still and enjoy myself for all that I am. So that night after the Bumble rando blew me off and I was emotionally ravaged, practically kneeling on the ground, arms out in the Scott Stapp/Jesus position à la Andy Dufresne on the poster for The Shawshank Redemption, I thought to myself, Am I going to fall the fuck apart every single time some guy I meet doesn’t end up being the one? Not only is that dumb, but it’s a sign that, unlike everyone who appears on The Bachelor and The Bachelorette, I was not there and dating for the right reasons. LOL.
I knew I had to change. My joy couldn’t be rooted in the possibility of getting a man. It had to be rooted in who I am. I should be happy because I can enjoy my own company and be confident in my capability to build a full life. I should be content with being alone sans distractions and daydreams. After all, the longest and most important relationship I’m ever going to have is with myself. And based on my track record, I’ve been spending most of my life neglecting it.
For the first time, in my early thirties, I truly got to know me and do things I’d never done before (travel overseas solo) and take better care of myself (exercising not because I wanted to look like a Hollywood starlet but because the hit of endorphins I’d get postworkout had me higher than Tinker Bell in the sky). I read more. Laughed more. Cried more. Worried less. Stopped monopolizing convos with friends by griping about dating. Thought about other people. Started doing charity work. Became more creative. And, thankfully, became happier as a person. To be clear, there are days when I’m jonesing a little bit for a partner, when I wish I had someone to help zip me into an outfit or run an errand for me because I’m busy or give me the perfect kind of hug that instantly destresses me. In those instances, loneliness comes and with it all my bad habits of falling into despair. The only difference now is that I treat those feelings like they’re Jehovah’s Witnesses ringing my doorbell on Saturday morning. I ain’t going to open the door. Ain’t going to look through the peephole to see who’s there. Ain’t going to turn my TV down so I can clearly hear what is being said. I’m just going to get up, stand about three feet from the door, and go, “Now, I’ve told you about coming here on my Saturday mornings . . .” And that’s all I need to say. Because JWs and feelings of despair, like everyone and everything else, understand that when someone who has zero damns to give reminds you about the times they told you about the shit they don’t have time for, that is your first and last warning that you’re about to get dragged like Bernie’s dead body in Weekend at Bernie’s. #ThatTookATurn.
The point is, I have my good days and my bad days. Scratch that. I just have one day and then another and another. And I refuse any longer to assign a negative connotation to being alone and feeling lonely. It’s not bad. It just is, and it’s merely one of thousands upon thousands of emotions I’ll feel in my lifetime. I don’t have to be over the moon about being alone, but damn it, I’m not going to waste my energy hating it anymore.
Aww, well, isn’t that special? Writing all that, much of which I’ve never said to anyone before, has me feeling free and warm and fuzzy all over. I think I want to stay here for a moment. Mmm. Wait. Where are you going? This essay isn’t over. I gots more I want to say, and I want you to hear it, especially if you’re not in a relaysh. Welcome to . . .
#TEAMBEBYYOURSELF: A Starter Guide/Refresher for People Who Don’t Have a Plus-One to Kid ’n Play Their Way Through Life With
Hey, boo-boos! Welcome to the single-and-ready-to-mingle, single-and-down-to-pop-a-Pringle, and single-and-I-ain’t-got-time-to-see-nobody’s-dingle-or-vajingle life. Now, some of you might’ve had no choice in your current dating status (ya got dumped or a tough tragedy happened, in which case, my condolences), while others made the call to throw your relaysh in the garbage like it was expired 2 percent milk, and finally, some of you simply needed to take a breather from the Snagging Some Strange Olympics and be on your own for a bit. Whatever the case may be, we have to feel good about our single statuses. Not necessarily all the time (no one is asking you to Stepford Wife your emotions), which is where I come in because I’m using all my (French accent) experience in singledom to give y’all some handy tips and reminders on how to be alone and only mildly hate and lukewarm love it.
Money! You’ll have more of it!
For real, being single is the best Cialis for one’s bank account. When you’re in a relationship, there are dinners, concerts, trips, birthdays, holidays, anniversaries. In short, you’re constantly spending money on someone else. It’s like love is a small-time gangster shaking you down every week for all that you got, and as you scrounge up all your cash, love goes, “Don’t make me come down here again just for these wack-ass Jacksons and Lincolns.” But when you’re single, you can do whatever the hell you want with the money. Wanna not spend it on activities without worrying about being called cheap? Go for it.
Feeling a little rich and wanna pull a Michael Phelps and backstroke your behind through a pile of it? Well, don’t do that. Money is dirty AF. And. It’s. All. Yours.
You can watch a TV show whenever the hell you want without fear that you’re committing an act of treason to the Nation of Bae.
Here are few simple truths once you’re in a relationship: You can’t bone other people (unless you’re in an open relaysh), compromise and communication are a couple of keys to the union lasting, and once you start watching a television series together, you cannot ever, under any circumstances, watch an episode of the show without the other person. I know, I know. You and your boo ain’t in the military, but when you’re in a relationship, watching a television series turns into a Band of Brothers situation in which you’re not allowed to leave a man behind. I don’t know how or when it happened, but watching an episode of a show solo when it’s you and your boo’s show is a rule you don’t break. And as a TV junkie, I take this decree very seriously, which is why I’ve never broken it . . . Okay. One time, I slipped.
A few years ago, I got into a fight with an ex and, out of spite, I watched an episode of Breaking Bad without him. And I’m not talking early seasons; I mean only three episodes left in the final season. Yeah, I was a coldhearted ssssssnake—#PaulaAbdul-Forever—but, in my defense, much like those folks who murder a loved one, my watching BB without my ex was a crime of passion. He had upset me so much that all I saw was red, and I started quoting Harpo from The Color Purple—“All my life I had to fight”—and decided to take back my life. Mind you, ex-bae and I were having the age-old champagne problem most noncohabitating couples have in which one partner rarely wants to go to the other’s home. The night #BreakingBadGate went down, he and I had been a little over two and half years into our coupledom and I was sick of packing an overnight bag to stay at his place. He conveniently was tired twenty minutes before Breaking Bad was supposed to air and no longer felt like coming over to my place to watch the show even though that was the plan. Instead, he wanted me to travel thirty-five to forty minutes via subway to him. After arguing for a bit, I was like, “Okay, cool. Set your DVR up. We can watch Breaking Bad when I get to you.” He agreed. And then I stayed my black-ass in bed and wa
tched the episode without him. How Petty LuPone of me. But like I wrote earlier, it was a crime of passion, and as soon as the show was over, I thought, Holy shit. That was an incredible hour of TV and I’m an asshole. I gathered my things, got to his place, and was so racked with guilt that I immediately admitted the betrayal. He was a little annoyed but laughed it off because I didn’t even have the strength to enjoy the triflingness I’d just done. We then watched the episode together and everything was fine. And while this moment of indiscretion didn’t lead to a huge blowup between us, I learned an important lesson: If spitefully watching Bryan Cranston cuss a mofo out without my boyfriend by my side is too emotionally draining, there’s no way in hell I’m capable of committing a real crime.
“No More Drama” isn’t just a Mary J. Blige song; it’s a new way of life.
Word to the wise, when you’re one of the people in a couple who are arguing in public, you look like an early-aughts music video where Usher is singing and you’re fighting in slo-mo. And trust that every person who is walking past you and hearing snippets of the fight is for damn sure picking sides, making rulings about who’s right, and before you know it, a bunch of unqualified heauxes are Iyanla Vanzanting the hell out of your relationship. So enjoy your single status, where you and a significant other aren’t out in these streets reenacting only the sad parts of Fences.
You have so much free time now to CrossFit your mind.
I know, I know. We all go to the gym, especially after a breakup, in the hopes of getting bodies like a Pilates teacher to celebrities, but if you’re anything like me, having a pricey gym membership, particularly one that allows you to go to any of their locations in the city you live in, like I do with Equinox gym, quickly devolves from exercising five times a week to just having expensive places where you can take dumps while running errands in the city. Convenient? Yes. Cost-effective? No. That’s why I think it’s great to also focus on the mental and get your mind in shape. I don’t know about y’all, but having a significant other can sometimes make it difficult to do that. There are vacations, work events, date nights, mundanities of relationships, mingling with each other’s families, not to mention your own solo shit like the day job and recharging your batteries. So sometimes it can seem like there’s not much time to read a book or the news, but guess what?! Now that you’re single, you’re getting hours and hours of your life back to beef up the old noggin. Think about it! Breaking up with my last ex freed me up to do things like learn how to pronounce the word “Worcestershire” because there was no one distracting me by poking his erect penis in my back.
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