Single in Public: A War Story

On any given day, I feel as though I’m trudging through a minefield. Metaphorically speaking, of course. There’s no danger of actually blowing myself to bits. I am, however, one of the sundry masses currently living in the middle of a cultural war zone, trying desperately to avoid getting my ass nicked in the crossfire. If you’re single, you know what I mean. And if you’re a single lady, you especially know what I mean. This isn’t a war of guns and cannons and unspeakable horrors. (Well, maybe a few unspeakable horrors here and there.) This isn’t a war of the roses, or a war of the worlds, of even a war between the sexes. No, this is a different kind of war. This is the war between the two-by-twos and the single-filed, the date nighters and the eating alone in my pajamas-ers, the cuddle at home folks and the knocking back mixed drinks at 2 AM crowd. This is a war between the couples and the singles.

Let’s be clear, though. This war wasn't instigated by our happily-in-love brethren. Love is grand, and those in love deserve their happiness (regardless of race, religion, or gender). Most of my dearest friends and both of my siblings are doing the peach-faced lovebird thing. I’m not even one of those people who desperately seeks coupledom 364 days of the year only to suddenly despise the very notion on Valentine’s Day. Mine isn't a diatribe against love or couples at all, actually. They’re just pawns, the poor saps. Nope, this is straight up, low down, so dirty you have to say Hail Mary’s for a month social combat.

What the hell is the point of this monolith, you ask? Allow me: this is about couple culture.

For those of you twenty-somethings who were lucky enough to marry your high school sweethearts and be each other’s firsts and lasts, I envy you. And you know why? Because being Single in Public is absolutely the worst conceivable thing a person in his/her twenties can do – aside from admitting to friends that s/he thinks The Office is overrated. That’s actually sacrilegious, and thus goes against Jesus. The rest of us though, us schlubs who are obligated to drink our way through dating and awkward sex, we’re not so fortunate.

This ain’t a world for singles. That’s right, mass media. I said it. Our cultural set-up favors couples. Think about it. The whole social system is designed around the idea that people will, inevitably, couple up. What’s the narrative we’re all told from birth? Go to school, get an education, get married, have babies. BOOM. We barely even have to think about it. And, really, we go through an enormous amount of effort as a culture to ensure that coupling up seems like the normal path. There’s jewelry for couples, there’s music for couples, there are frames for couples. I mean, when’s the last time you went to Target and saw a cute frame with “Rocking the Single Life” embossed on it? Let me answer that one for you: NEVER. The message here is that it obviously isn’t socially acceptable to hang pictures of yourself pimping your Friday night best and tossing back vodka cranberries. But get married or find a significant other and you can cover your walls top to bottom with Cute Couple Pictures, and Target will be more than happy to offer you an affordably charming decorative frame just for the occasion.

Now, I dare you to walk into your local bistro and have a meal by yourself. The host will, without a doubt, first ask you if you’re meeting someone, but in a way that makes you seem as if you have the bubonic plague. Something like, “Just you tonight?” Yeah, hooker, just me. Sometimes I’m hungry ALL BY MYSELF. Then, when you’re seated at your table for six, looking like the loneliest loser on the planet, the other patrons will begin shooting you that really sympathetic look that says they’re really sorry you got stood up, which is in turn followed by the uncomfortable shifty eyes when you don’t run for the door in tears. Since, clearly, the only reason you’d eat alone is because your date decided you were, in fact, not cool enough to spend an hour with or you’re suffering from early onset dementia. And don’t even entertain the notion of going in if you’re extremely hungry. More than one plate (and/or glass of wine) equals unparalleled social suicide. You might as well cut yourself a mullet and pull out your third grade fanny pack. You’re that guy now.

And I’m not even going to talk about going to the movies alone – particularly if you’re a Disney fan, as is yours truly. I’m surprised I’m not in jail yet.

Let’s face it: we, as a culture, court an underlying suspicion of single people. And, in this the technology age, we go to extraordinary lengths to let everyone – including our best friend’s fifth grade boyfriend who now lives in another state – that we are definitely part of a couple. We live in a fantastic time to be partnered up. Social media practically begs it of you. What in the world is Instagram for if not for sharing all the ridiculously cute pictures of you and your significant other buying organic produce at your local farmer’s market? (Sadly, try as I might, me and Moms just don’t have that same glow in our Cute Couple Pictures.) Facebook, though, is by far the worst of the worst. Yes, as a single person, I do absolutely love finding out that people I’ve known since I was still drooling on myself are now engaged while I sit alone in my apartment and experiment with all of the foods that taste good with Nutella. Thanks for that notification, Zuckerberg. (Ritz crackers are the best, if you’re wondering). And it’s not as if you can really announce with pride that you’re single and pretty cool with it. Who wants to publicize to everyone in their social circle and even some people they've never met before that they are, in fact, just single? Not that we all couldn't tell by your considerable lack of couple pictures or meme shares from your significant other or status tags from your partner about how much they just REALLY LOVE YOU. Of course, thanks to Facebook’s new effort to track our every life event, we can now see that you aren't “In a Relationship” and that you haven’t bought a house on We’re So Happy We Thought We’d Take Pictures of Our Stove Ln. I mean, if I take a picture of my stove and post it on Facebook, I’m high. (But then again, I’m single.) So all us non-coupled folks have to act like we’re all LIVING THE DREAM, BRO when, in reality, we’re just being normal. Solo style.

The point is we’re conditioned from an early age to be extremely anxious if we’re single for too long. A little while? Okay, that’s called healing or sowing your wild oats or finding out who you really are. More than a year? Time to get back out there, partner. You’re fucking things up. At the very least, you need to listen to “Tired of Being Alone” on repeat and wish fervently for someone to accompany you as you shop for chemical-free cucumbers. If not, your relatives start to question your sexuality. Or set you up on blind dates. Or some combination thereof. Either way, you will have to answer for your lifestyle.

What our society fails to realize, though, is that single life has its perks. And since Her Highness Beyoncé threw her two cents in with “Single Ladies,” single life has definitely become a hell of a lot cooler. And maybe no one’s writing movie scripts about those singles among us who are content with our lives, but we’re here, and we’ve figured out that it’s really not that bad. Just think: I have an entire queen-sized mattress to myself. All those blankets? Oh yeah, those are mine. No one gives me judgey face when I eat spaghetti at midnight. (Which, by the way, is when spaghetti tastes the best.) If anyone’s drinking the last beer in the fridge, it’s me. If I decide I want to uproot and spend a year teaching Moroccan children how to weave baskets with their teeth, that’s my prerogative. And sometimes, when I just don’t feel like wearing pants, I let my no-purchase-necessary Victoria’s Secret cheekies see the light of day. There’s nobody to impress except myself. And I’m a really laid back kind of girl.

I may not have a companion, but I’m okay with it. What I’m not okay with is feeling obligated to slut it up and show the world that I am trying, really trying, to couple up. I don’t want to beg for acceptance. Because, as a recently singled friend of mine said to me in her infinite wisdom, “One day our princes will come, but until then, we’ll be fucking fabulous.” Even if that means just hanging out with our respective pets and eating Nutella on Ritz crackers.

All original content copyright Kimberly Turner, 2013-2013.