The life of a single woman oftentimes can become a mix of granny panties and Christian Louboutin heels. Stylish heels portraying an image of seduction to attract our heartʼs desire while under our facade we are more like the sexless underwear;
comfortable, worn and one wash cycle away from ripping at the very seams that hold us together. Some women take to their single status with pride and a certain je ne sais quoi that others, such as myself, do not posses. I took to my newfound manless state much like an AA member forced to attend group meetings in a bar; I was confused, lost and more often than not, needed a good strong gin and tonic. My je ne sais quoi had je ne sais left.
The first month post-breakup was the most effective. By effective I mean that I single handedly transformed my body two dress sizes larger by a diet of Ben & Jerryʼs ice cream and pizza. At one point the Papa Johns delivery boy recognized me and knew me by name, it was around that point I figured I had wallowed in my misery (and trans fats) enough. Judging from stories Iʼve heard from other women, my one month of fatty foods and empty ice cream pints in the recycling bin were hardly noteworthy.
Now, nearly a year post-breakup, Iʼm realizing more and more some of the perks of my new unattached status. Showers are shorter for the simple fact that if you donʼt want to shave your legs, you simply donʼt, you just wear pants. Simple. Secondly, you donʼt have to wear that lace bra and matching thong set if you donʼt want to because nobody is going to see it but you. Go commando. Sport a pair of cotton briefs in a horrendous Christmas tree pattern. For the first time your underwear is truly yours, not bought for the sole purpose of pleasing someone else. The experience has been more liberating than the time I ate an entire loaf of french bread after quitting a no carb diet. Freeing. Blissful. Just with less bloating.
There is nothing wrong with being single. This is a sentence I had to repeat to myself over and over in the first few months of my new cotton brief wearing life. Why? As a Southern girl you are born and bred to grow up, get married and raise babies. At
nearly 29 I consider myself neither grown up, married and the only baby I have raised is an obese black cocker spaniel that answers to the name of an alcoholic beverage, Martini. I wonʼt lie to you. The mantra takes some time to sink in. I would say it in the car. “There is nothing wrong with being single.” I would say it in the checkout aisle of the Winn-Dixie, “There is nothing wrong with being single,” much harder to inwardly chant while outwardly ashamed of your shopping cart full of Lean Cuisines, tampons and Diet Coke. Classic spinster cart. Practice makes perfect. I still have to say it to myself in situations. I say it when I open wedding invitations in the mail from 22 year old relatives. I say it when I attend baby showers for my old sorority sisters. I even reminded myself of it at a funeral once, although Iʼm still not quite sure what that was about. I also vaguely remember being appalled at the chosen outfit for the deceased at the open casket wake, black lace on a corpse is a bit too Morticia Adams if you ask me, so perhaps it had less to do with the mantra and more to do with my possibly not having any funeral etiquette whatsoever.
Iʼve cried into a lot of tissues, read a number of “How to land a man” articles and even briefly considered a speed dating service (although Iʼm fairly certain the thought consideration I gave to that idea was shorter than the speed dates themselves), and Iʼve come to a conclusion. There is nothing wrong with being single. So pull on those granny panties ladies and hold your head up high, we may be worn and the wear and tear of life may have left some holes in us, but you have to admit, when the going gets tough, we know how to cover our own ass.
