A few months ago, I quit my dating blog to start a running blog. After two years of writing about my search for Mr. Right, I was burned out. I was sick of dating. Sick of thinking about the romance, love, inevitable heartbreak triumvirate of pain. Sick of talking about relationships. Sick of watching my own relationships unravel. I was sick of feeling like everyone I knew was married or moving on and I was still stuck in the mire of perpetual singleness.
I felt like a loser, someone doomed to spend mini-eternities in solitude between brief and unsatisfying love affairs.
I thought I could escape heartbreak with distraction. I thought I might even shave some time off my 12-minute-per-mile pace.
I was wrong.
After only a few posts, I realized not only was my heart not in my new blog, I wasn’t even getting any better at running. I quickly created the category Not Running and by the time 80% of my posts were in that category, I decided to ditch the running stories and get back to writing about what I know: feeling like the Last Single Girl in the world.
I know my wording, “Last Single Girl” is a little dramatic; I have single friends, but our numbers are waning and almost every day, there is a new engagement announcement emoticon or sonogram photo in my news feed. Most days, I am truly down-to-the-roots-of-my-soul happy for my friends, but every once in a while, I find myself crying into my Cabernet and asking my dog why no man loves me like he does.
Ridiculous, right? I don’t want a guy who loves me like this stupid beagle loves me. The beagle lets me lounge around in dirty clothes and watch reruns of The Vampire Diaries for hours on end. The beagle lets me paint his nails and dress him up. I wouldn’t want a guy who puts up with that crap.
Still, Mr. Right continues to elude me, so I as I continue on my way into another haphazard series of love affairs, I expect to stumble and trip, but I don’t expect to fall. Not this time.