“So, why aren’t you dating someone? Why haven’t you met someone yet?”
I hate that question. It comes to me, often, from well-meaning friends, absentminded yet caring coworkers, anxious parents and gentle doyennes.
I get it in supermarkets, in gyms, at the park, while pumping gas, via text message, e-mail, and carrier pigeon–
Why. Why not? Why not yet? What are you waiting for?
As if, as if, after all this time, as if it is a choice. As if it is a deliberate action on my part, a snipe on my bit, to remain alone (not lonely, no! never lonely) and without partner in a world, in my world, which has been designed, most fundamentally so, for partnership.
Why. Why not? Don’t you know how? Don’t you know how? Don’t you know how to love?
As if, as if I am defective, or that I have some secret sin, harbor some hidden failing so vast and profound as not even be speakable in good company. Oh, there must be something wrong (read: something broken) inside of me, something that can be sensed in the cut of my eyes, the twist of my lips, the jut of my chin.
I tire. I tire of the question. I tire of the failure on my part that is not a failure, not really, it just hasn’t happened yet, I just haven’t met anyone yet, not the right person, not that right time, but regardless, it feels as if it is a failing. An absolute one. Something most unbecoming.
I tire. I tire of the search and of the waiting. I tire of the wanting and the loss of hope.
I am tired of having no good answer to poorly asked questions.