My friends consistently remind me that I don’t know what it’s like to be single, have no idea how it feels to be alone and searching for the right guy. I’ve tried to convince them that that’s not the case – after all, I spent years as the quintessential single girl in all her incarnations (quintessential single girl pining over her ex-boyfriend; quintessential single girl drowning her problems in alcohol and bad decisions; quintessential single girl desperate enough to date a gay guy) before I met Dave. And, speaking of, it’s 11 p.m. right now and he’s still at the hospital, hence dating a med student is actually kind of like dating no one at all.
But even with all of that experience, I probably wasn’t very good at relating to their first date horror stories and match.com intrigues…until I moved to Philly in July.
You see, even though I’m living with Dave, I’m still looking for that special someone. Someone who will grab froyo with me on the weekends and a glass of wine during happy hour. Someone with a working knowledge of Dawson’s Creek and the OC and haircare products. Someone who can lend me a tampon when I’m out.
People, I need some girlfriends.*
I know that some girls are perfectly happy spending all of their time with their boyfriends. I’m just not one of them. I need balance, I need gossip, I need…someone who will split that sundae with me (fuck the frozen yogurt.)
And I’m looking for the real thing. I’m just at the point in my life right now where I don’t want to waste my time on a fling. Over the summer, for example, I went out on a few first dates grabbed dinner with a few acquaintances. They were nice and all, but the conversation was just a little forced. One of the girls ordered a vegetarian sandwich. (Dealbreaker.)
Is it one of those “when you know, you know?” things? I tried thinking back to when I started hanging out with my best friends – was it love at first sight? Or did we have to work at it a bit? I can’t remember. All I know is that a few months ago, I found myself looking forward to physical therapy – where they were giving me electrical shocks – because I could gab with some of the staff. Not good.
Any suggestions? I know I’m supposed to be patient, I’ll find it when I least expect it, blah blah blah. But it’s hard out there. I finally see what they mean.
*A particularly flamboyant gay guy also might suffice.