Being Single Socks

I find myself surrounded by odd pairs these days. The universe seems to be in the habit of placing people together like a lazy launderer mismatching socks as they tumble out of the machine. Because I’m the kind of person that habitually tosses the orphans back into the laundry bag each week, hoping they’ll return to me perfectly paired (though, I’ll admit, most of them have been washed to the bare threads), I find myself living through this time of my life as some gay version of Jane Goodall. I have moved to the jungle, I live with the apes, and I know they have something to do with my evolution as a person—but I’m more “in” the world, than “of” the world.

Most couples my age seem to have paired up by sheer happenstance. Their personalities don’t mesh, they make no visual sense, and their interests don’t overlap. We homosexuals all have one thing in common…we’re homosexuals. Right off the bat, we have something to talk about. Coming out stories, gay culture, and the experience of being either fashionable or marginalized (depending on your geographic location)—this can bond any odd-couple lickity split (if you’ll pardon the Lez, I mean phrase). Also, we’re dealing with a fraction of the population. If the washer was only half full (optimistically, of course), you might not sort through the whole load, scouring each corner, to look for your sock’s mate. You may just do a cursory scan and assume you’ve seen it all. I blame this phenomenon in part for the neon pink & black gold-toe pairings I have been encountering.

Still, even when the stars are aligned, styles match, and careers coordinate, the average neurotic will push someone away. A straight friend of mine expressed her frustration with a new boyfriend. I tried to explain to her that he probably didn’t understand her, that all women are different, and crazy in their own unique, special, way, and to give him time to figure her out. We, as women, tend to think we’re easily understood. After all, our friends get us, why wouldn’t our partners? For reasons like this: I give compliments. I like to be complimented. Many women do. Especially in bed. Often, we are a little self-conscious when naked and any sincere props are welcomed. I happened to be in bed with someone shortly after her drastic haircut. I made the following statement: “You were beautiful before, but this is fucking hot.” Nice? Apparently not. The reply was (no emphasis added): “Ugh. Ew. I forgot you do that.” “Do what?” I replied. “Say nice things.” She it said with disdain! Here is a perfect example of how women are difficult. How was I to know that this particular girl found compliments not only unwelcome, but burdensome and annoying? Try recovering from that with no shirt on.

I had a personal revelation this week. I don’t want a relationship. Considering I have been single for the past twenty-some years (with a few, sputtering interruptions), this is something of a relief. I had always considered my solitude a failure, a source of weakness. But the more I experiment in this world, observe couples, and play anthropologist, the more I recognize the couple’s place in the evolutionary timeline, and I come to accept that I am not there. Perhaps perfectionism is the death of romance. But until I feel the need to eat a flea off of another ape, until it’s legal for me and this matching ape to marry and live out the dreams I have for my life as a real-live grown-up homosapien/homolesbian, I’m not gonna stress.

Lucky for me, I live in New York; and thanks to Candace Bushnell/Carry Bradshaw, carrying on through the next decade or so floating in and out of unsuccessful affairs, collecting Ex’s is not only acceptable, it’s chic! Tres Bien!

I saw a comedian* a while back who was recently married. On women, he said: “I would date these girls, find out they were crazy, and then we would break up. One morning I woke up next to this one and realized—oh crap, they’re all that way. So I proposed.”

I fully accept that I am a crazy female; and I’m not in a hurry to double the amount of crazy in my life. I already know I have a penchant for difficult women, so I highly doubt I'll end up dating the peaceful, balanced type. And I’m sure I’ll enjoy the company of another neurotic, high-strung, steamroller at some point, but for the time being, I’m happy to be a dater. (With my luck, I’ll be civil-unioned by next week, eating these words one mega-bite at a time. But I’m taking my stand today. Coupling is great for apes and socks, just not for this girl. To the coupled reader I'll say this: I simultaneously admire your commitment and believe you should all be committed. Double the ladies double the fun? Me thinks not.)

This orphan is sticking to the side of the washer, hiding from that argyle freak that keeps creeping up the side, tucked safely in my corner away from those low-cut sluts and the uptight knee-highs. I’m going for yet another spin with the delicates. See you next time.




*I believe the comic referenced was Damien San Marco—though I Googled him and cannot seem to find any confirmation of his identity or comedic status. Damien, if you’re still out there, still doing comedy, rock on.