It makes me wonder if I really have reached the culmination of singleton or if I really should start counting my calorie intake or start smoking 28 cigarettes a day.
Have I been fraudulently flirted with? Yes.
Have I psychopathically stared at my phone and waited for it to ring? Yes.
Have I been barraged with questions on my singleton? Hell yes.
Ah, but I’m not thirty. I don’t even have a boss who is unnervingly sexy or is fraudulently flirting with me over the telephone. I don’t need to worry about my social network which consists of merely six people. Bridget has set the record and I mustn’t break it. But I do wonder, when I am thirty, will I fancy my singleton the way I do now? Will I be able to survive without silk cut or without turning my blood into alcohol every time things went haywire? Will I be obsessed about my weight and worry incessantly about a man!?
I’ll probably be a diffident thirty something who survives on a platonic friendship and fruits and hopefully is too much of a health/fitness freak to smoke a fag and die of a spasmodic cough by choking up on her own saliva. The obscure reality of the thirties is still very attainable, which makes the whole thing much scarier. It’s the reality of dealing with a fuckwittage or becoming one, which is worse. It’s the reality of dragging your arse to boring and over-frenzied office parties and having to go though the complexity of choosing an outfit which makes you look like a floating angel. It’s the reality of rolling your eyes at the man who called you frigid and malign and old, because it just warms the cockles of your heart. It’s the reality of falling over and over again for a man who’s a tease (I hate him. I love him. I hate him. I love him.). It’s the reality of your friends slinking off the minute you’re crestfallen. It’s the reality where you’re merely an achiever in a family full of over-achievers or vice-versa. And it’s the reality where your relatives and family friends just cannot give you a fucking break.
The good is that the good always stays the same. No matter what age you are.
The heart gives the same lurch whenever you fall for someone new. The Ice-creams never seem to go out of style for late-night trysts. Your girlfriends are always by your side, it’s the same old jokes, the same old laugh. It’s the same old theory and the same old list of reasons about why you’re still single. It’s the same old happy single time being enjoyed over a glass of red wine but now you just have to hold your breath because your friend is lighting a fag. And you’re still preserving the self-annihilating habits. Well, so far so good. That’s not my thirties talking anyway, or is it?