Not too long ago, I wrote about all the things that made me happier in 2015. One of those things was choosing not to date for a year.
Dating experts hailed the decision as the smartest choice I could make for myself, while some date-a-holics were downright perplexed by it.
Though taking a timeout from the dating scene last year was ultimately the right decision for me, I am by no means ready to get my Grey Gardens on. It’s 2016, time to shake the cobwebs off from my nether regions, get out of these sweatpants and pluck my eyebrows. You know – at least attempt to look like I am trying to put myself out there again.
But being “out there,” wherever single people are these days (the gym? Comicon? Their parents’ basement? I have no idea) is pretty effing scary to me. It’s probably because I’m one of those people who actually enjoys being single. But I’m starting to think I’ve been enjoying it a little too much. Here are things that happen when you’ve been out of the game for a long-ass time.
Your vagina is useless
You respect it and everything, but it’s just there now, hanging out. You only notice its existence during that time of the month, and you’re all, “Oh, hey. What have you done FOR ME lately?”
…Except when you’re masturbating
Which you do. A lot. So much that you start to wonder whether you even need someone to help you out anymore because you’ve got your O-game down to a science.
Sex is less pleasurable and more “where you at?”
You’re so thirsty for the D that you seek any experience, only to happily return to your vibrator because quality D takes a lot more time and effort. You know, like, dating.
You don’t notice when someone is hitting on you
Whenever a guy smiles at you or looks at you longer for a second, you immediately think you have something on your face. Or he has a staring problem and is a major creep. And then you pull your best DeNiro impression and get all cranky: “You talkin’ to me? You talkin’ to me? You talkin’ to me?!”
And then you don’t know why someone is hitting on you
When the guy admits that, yes, he is talking to you, and you realize you’re being macked on, you freak out and demand, ”Why?” As if something’s wrong with him.
You really love your comfy sweats
And you wish all your pants came with an elastic band.
You haven’t shaved…anything
You can call it “going primal.” You can call it, “the European look,” but let’s call it what it is: You have no more fucks to give.
You have Netflix, no “chill”
But you have Netflix. So, you good.
You crush on celebs.
Would you rather picture Coach Taylor going down on you, or some weird guy you don’t know who has an overbite? Besides, Coach is all “clear eyes, full hearts, can’t lose,” which you know has gotta be goooood.
Sharing a bed is no longer an option
You starfish the shit outta your bed 24/7, and you can’t even begin to think about sharing it with some heavy breather.
You’re totally okay with dying alone.
You have your friends, family and cats, so you convince yourself you don’t really need anyone. Besides, we all basically die alone, right? Well, except for those folks in The Notebook. Shit…
You question whether you know what love is anymore.
This is the hardest one. It’s been so long since you felt those butterflies that you wonder if you’ll be able to recognize love if it slapped you in the face/vagina. But you remember that part of you that knew what it was a long time ago, and that gives you hope to at least try again.
Besides, you’ll always have Netflix.