My friend met someone when she was out the other night at karaoke. I was going to come, but I felt ill, so I stayed in and watched that Nightsleeper show and told my flatmates it wasn’t very good, even though I was on my phone the whole time. She started talking to him because the guy sang “Under the Bridge,” which is her karaoke song, and then they sat in the corner and chatted about stately homes for a weirdly long time, particularly the one in West London with the beautiful tiles. As she was typing her number into his phone, he said, “I’ve got an Art Pass, and I’m not afraid to use it!” because he liked her so much that she made him say loserish stuff like that.
I replied on the group chat when my friend was telling us about all this: Scream… tell me everything… show us a picture… aaah, he’s so fit… I sounded so happy, and I was—I want the best for my friends, I promise—but if you’d been able to see my face in that moment, I didn’t look happy. I was curled up in bed like a croissant, scrolling on Instagram to distract myself from the very small part of me that felt jealous, that wished it was me instead, that wondered what would have happened if I’d gone that night after all and met him myself.
Would we have gotten on? Or would I have asked stiff and awkward questions, like, “How do you know James?” Would he have fancied me, or would he have thought my outfit made me look like I was trying too hard and noticed the little lines under my eyes that my concealer bleeds into? Would he have asked for my number and said “I’ve got an Art Pass and I’m not afraid to use it!” or would he have headed off to find the rest of his group?
I tell my brain to shut up. He would always have liked her more, because she’s wonderful and gorgeous. I might not even have fancied him. I literally have no idea who he is. Why am I making this into a competition? I start to defend their connection in my head, even though I know nothing about it.
A little while later, my friend tells us all to stop getting excited: She doesn’t think she’ll see him again because he hasn’t replied to her yet this morning. Even though the night before he said on a date that he had a great time and asked if they could do something together soon. Even though he messaged her when he got home asking if she made it back safe, sending her a photo of the cheese on toast he was having in bed. I’m frustrated by her worrying, because by that logic I should call it off with the guy who hasn’t responded to me in three days. I’m reassuring her, but really I want to bring the conversation around to me, to what I’m going through. I’ve been single for nearly five years now, and the moment I get close with someone, I run away, or they do, and then I’m alone again. I want all the girls to be cooing over me, reassuring me that it’s nothing to do with me—but I don’t, because I know that’s annoying. I show every side of myself to my friends except that side, because it’s too ugly even for them.
I know why it happens. To survive being single, you need allies. Every time I’m having a panic about it, I remind myself of all the women I know who are also single, and it makes me feel better because they’re the most beautiful, funny, interesting people I’ve ever met. I’m scared of what will happen when they get into relationships; I don’t want to be left behind. We say to each other, “Don’t you dare get a boyfriend!” It’s a joke, but we also kind of mean it. There’s other stuff, too. Women are taught to compete with each other, told that there aren’t enough options around. And there actually aren’t. At every party, there’s one decent guy there, and he’s probably not over his ex.
It’s never good to compare yourself to the people around you—we’re all on our own paths. There’s this yoga teacher whose classes I go to who always gets angry when people glance around at each other during a session. He says that he always sees people doing the right thing, but then they notice the person next to them doing something different and lose their balance while trying to copy them. You can apply the same logic to romance. In worrying about what other people are doing, you become insecure, and go out because there might be hot people there rather than because you actually want to, and then you give off this weird stressful energy and go home disappointed when you don’t talk to anyone. People are always saying that really annoying phrase about meeting someone “when you least expect it.” Well, this is a version of expecting it.
And the pressure to find someone only gets worse when the cold weather hits and cuffing season begins. I want to go and see a horror film with someone and get confused by the plot because the whole time I’m thinking about their hand on my leg. I want to lie in on Sundays reading in bed together with warm milky tea and screaming when their cold foot hits mine. I want to put on boots and tights and a big coat and spend the whole day in the pub with someone drinking red wine.
My friend messages to say that that guy from karaoke still hasn’t got back to her, and it’s been nearly a week at this point. I tell her that he’s an idiot—that she shouldn’t take it out on herself because we have no idea what might be going on in his life. Maybe he’s just not in the right headspace to meet anyone. And even though I don’t want to admit it, a very small part of me is relieved.
