A married male friend recently approached me for dating advice.
He and his wife, partnered for 15 years, had decided to open up their marriage and start seeing other people. “I’ve been in relationships my whole life, so I’ve never been on a first date,” he told me. “It sounds like a horrible nightmare, but also like something that maybe I should experience once during my lifetime. You go on dates a lot. Got any tips?”
I’m no stranger to the subtle prejudices single people face in a world mostly designed for couples — the capitalist behemoth that is Valentine’s Day serving as one prime example.
I would have chuckled if his request didn’t feel like a dig at my life choices. As someone who’s been single for roughly half of my adult life, I’m no stranger to the “dreaded” first dates he speaks of (which are actually pretty fun if you don’t take them too seriously). I’m also no stranger to the subtle prejudices single people face in a world mostly designed for couples — the capitalist behemoth that is Valentine’s Day serving as one prime example.
Being single means being relegated to the pullout couch or shared bunk beds during group trips and wedding weekends. My annual tax bill is likely higher than it would be if I’d snagged a husband. A slate of reality dating shows (I’m not ashamed to admit I became a card-carrying member of Bachelor Nation during the pandemic) peg cheeky car insurance commercials to the narrative that human beings are only truly happy once they’ve found their “person.”
And then there’s the question often volleyed, innocently enough, by people who think they’re paying you a compliment: Why is someone as pretty/successful/[insert generic nicety] as you still single?
A New York Times opinion essay from November explored why more women are opting out of marriage, positing that today’s dating pool doesn’t include enough eligible men. A feature ran in The Guardian a couple weeks later that celebrated uncoupled women across generations. Meanwhile, behavior scientist Paul Dolan claimed in 2019 that unmarried, childless women are actually the happiest subgroup of our population.
In other words: The single woman’s “unconventional” life choices are starting to seem increasingly conventional, if not downright beneficial.
It’s taken me years to admit I like my life just the way it is. Sure, I’ve had my share of boyfriends, but the positives of partnership didn’t come close to the sheer euphoria of scooping up my dog in my arms when I arrive home after a long day, or the fiery inspiration of a new creative project. In fact, the list of things I’d rather do instead of interviewing a stranger from the internet to see if we want to see each other naked has become almost prohibitively long.
Of course, many people in my life derive deep fulfillment from long-term coupledom, and I’m not closed off to the possibility of a satisfying romantic relationship myself. But until the right guy comes along, my sources of joy and fulfillment look different than the season finale of “The Bachelor.” Unlike much of the rom-com messaging we see in pop culture, I’ve formed deep, meaningful, and platonic relationships with multiple people, and each of them plays a role I might otherwise seek from a romantic partner.
I live-blog every crush, conundrum and trip to the grocery store on a text thread with my two best friends, a forum that hums with the minutiae of our daily lives. I drive across the bridge to my brother and sister-in-law’s house, where I prance around performing ad-libbed musical numbers with my 2-year-old nephew. I accompany my housemate, a hilarious man I affectionately dubbed my “platonic domestic partner,” to art shows and political gatherings all over our city. I share and experience the peaks and valleys of existence with so many people I adore.
The crew of badass solo women I’ve collected over the years, all of whom are building their lives without compromise, is as colorful as the recent spate of articles celebrating singlehood. My close pal Michelle spontaneously hopped on a flight to Tunisia with me last summer without needing to consult anyone’s calendar but her own. My childhood friend Christine would rather tutor math in her free time than swipe around for a lover. My former roommate Ari saved up to buy a house by herself, and decorated it entirely according to her tastes. And my very own mother has been single for the past decade, during which she built an impressive career and moved across the country to live closer to my brother and me.
We single ladies have come a long way since the days when spinsters were doomed to endure a tragic life of rotting away in the attic.
We single ladies have come a long way since the days when spinsters were doomed to endure a tragic life of rotting away in the attic. Which is why I’m still confused when confronted with yet more retrograde stereotypes. Like when I return to Chicago for my college reunion and my sorority sisters pepper me with questions about my “alternative lifestyle.” Or when I’m badgered about “getting back on the apps.” (Aren’t my married friends the ones using Feeld these days?) Or when I RSVP to yet another formal event and they won’t let me list my dog as my plus-one — even after I went to all the trouble to order him a tiny tuxedo on Etsy!
Shakespeare’s course of true love never did run smooth, and the course of progress for single folk is not without its setbacks. The women of “Sex and the City” proved, as early as 30 years ago, that playing the field could be a dazzling and empowering experience. But I’m not allowed to send a holiday card without the recipients thinking I’m kinda weird. And those “Sex and the City” gals did all end up with their dream guys by the end of Season Six.
Even though society has evolved to an era where words like “polyamory” and “throuple” have made it comfortably into our lexicon, it can still be exhausting for solo people to constantly feel like they need to explain their relationship status. So the next time you find yourself asking me about the “horrible nightmares” I’m forced to endure on the regular, skip the pity pat on the back. Instead, pat me on the back for figuring out how to build a life according to my own definition of success — even if it means I’ll be sleeping on the bottom bunk from time to time.
