My last relationship ended as confusingly as it began. A casual hookup became my girlfriend faster than I could yell, “I’m terrified of commitment, you don’t want this, I’m going to sabotage it.” The self-sabotage took its time, but eventually my complete and utter lack of knowledge on the opposite sex and relationships got the best of me. After a year and a half, it appeared my significant other had a moment of blind clarity. She decided it was the perfect move to end the relationship on a day in early April. Unfortunately, this day happened to coincide with a certain holiday. I got dumped on April Fool’s day, and to the shock of none of my friends, have been single ever since.
After one day, two pints of Ben and Jerry’s, and multiple rom-coms, I was ready to get back out there. Considering this was the first time I’d been single since college, I knew I had to pull out all the stops. Saturday night, dressed in my finest gingham shirt, and still a little down on my relationship ending, I decided to hit the bars with my friends. Like a newborn calf learning to walk, I approached the first girl I saw and attempted to start a conversation. Without a second’s hesitation, she politely informed me that she had a boyfriend and walked away. “Minor setback,” I thought to myself as I ordered another drink, ignoring the fact that my pre-game had already put me on the fringe of the danger zone.
Girl after girl was approached, and girl after girl politely turned me away. Maybe it was the fact that one of my eyes was wide open staring at the ceiling and the other was half-closed and staring at the floor. Even though the average of where I was looking was perfect eye contact, the nice girls I was talking to clearly didn’t appreciate it. Maybe it was that I just wasn’t ready to move on quite yet, and maybe it was me just being rusty. In hindsight, it was probably the eight drinks and stench of desperation but hey, not every night can be a winner. I woke up the next morning on top of my sheets fully clothed, with nothing but shame and multiple “Are you okay?” texts from close friends.
Three months later and I’m still living the single life, albeit only slightly more effectively now. I still drink myself into a stupor more than I’d care to admit and have an unrelenting urge to “do it for the story,” but it’s all in good fun. I’ve met more women swiping right in the middle of a bowel movement than I did in my four years of undergrad, and in a strange way, I’m proud of that. As great as the comforts of being in a relationship can be, the freedom of being single has liberated me from the day-to-day monotony of postgrad life, and opened up the door to just about anything. The sting of rejection has become more of a pinprick, staying in shape now has an ulterior motive beyond health, and the weekend is mine to conquer.
Now, if I could just find a way to not look confused and startled when a girl actually does engage in conversation with me, I’ll be crushing the single life in no time..
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