So, being single, I had to hire a random man from the Internet to carry it for me.Then I had to hire a different man to install it, only to have that man explain that I’d bought an AC with the wrong voltage for my building, which meant that I had to rehire the first man to carry the AC back downstairs again.“Okay, I’m going to be really misogynistic for a minute,” Steve told me from the phone, “but I think that women—even if they are modern and feminist and independent or whatever—still feel pressure to get married and grow up in that specific, Disney-lifestyle kind of way.So the women who are my age-ish, who are still single, are kind of the fucking leftovers.
But now, seeing my friends usually means being the one single person amid a mob of couples, who treat me either like hired entertainment (“tell us a funny Tinder story, clown! For instance, for years now my friends and I have spent summer weekends at a shared beach house on Fire Island.
But I keep turning corners, and I keep meeting finance guys with high cholesterol who just discovered Williamsburg. Sometimes I think I should’ve picked someone when I was 25 and stupid, and then just made it work.
The catch is, as we become increasingly picky, the pool of soul mates keeps getting smaller.
I find myself having thoughts like, “I could never date him, he wears V-necks.” Or, “He was nice, but he sleeps in a mezzanine bed.” And this perpetual dissatisfaction is especially true in New York, where inflated egos are paired with incredibly high standards and the illusion of infinite choice.
That cliché of thinking “someone better might be just around the corner” is real.
When I told this story to my mom, she responded with a sigh, “See, this is why you need a boyfriend: Air conditioners, broken toilets, a raccoon in the basement—that all becomes their problem.”But it’s not just that being single suddenly feels alienating in your 30s.