My name is Lucy. I am twenty-five years old, and I have been single for the last two and a half of them. My relationship with my own singularity is tumultuous and seems to go around in circles more times than when I play ‘laser pen’ with my cat. There are stages when I can be entirely comfortable to be alone. I can enjoy the fact I can indulge in a life full of selfish choices and not shaving my legs for a few days.
However, more often than not, I find every day to be a conscious effort to vet most men I encounter as part of my elimination process to find that ‘man for me’. In my bid to fill that void left in the absence of having a man to call my own, I find myself appreciating the attentive, albeit creepy beeps of passing dirty white vans. Even worse, I allow my ego to be massaged by vowel-free messages addressing me as ‘bbz’ by facial bum fluff-sporting twerps on internet dating sites. Even as I share these sorry truths, I find myself asking one question. Why am I doing this to myself?
Well, I’ve come up with a theory. We are being tricked into thinking that we need a bloke. Let’s just step out of the tumbleweed-filled corner of single misery for a moment and look at things properly. It’s not like I’m an Attenborough-narrated creature roaming the wilderness seeking a mate to build a nest and continue my species with. Okay, so maybe somewhere down the line… but believe me, nest building and offspring rearing isn’t even in the top five of my present life agenda right now. I’m a fit(ish), healthy(ish), intelligent(ish), attractive (let me have that one?) young woman. I have ambition, purpose, friends and family. Right now, the only real need I’m missing out on from a man is having someone to call me a pet name and tell me I look pretty. I’m sure if I asked someone nicely enough, they could fill that purpose.
It must be that I’ve been brainwashed into thinking that a man is an essential. It’s like being told what accessory I need for the rest of my wardrobe to work. I’m sure I will manage to leave the house in a decent state even if I don’t buy that bejewelled cape. A process of elimination has pointed the finger at two things. Romantic ideals and blind jealousy. When I’m not suffering from the green-eyed monster mauling at my heartstrings with every affectionate couple I see, I’m busy weeping at the saccharine sentiment of some dreadful RomCom or other. I even wept at Music and Lyrics the other day. See, it’s got pretty bad.
It’s through seeing how daft we’re being sometimes that we can tell our demons to do one. There really is something to be said for looking too hard for things. I’m sure that at the right time, that ‘man for me’ will make his grand entrance. Until then, turning to chick flicks starring Hugh Grant is certainly not the answer.