Indices to the Idle Lonely

She had watched them in supermarkets and she knew the signs. At seven o’clock on a Saturday evening they would be standing in the checkout line reading the horoscope in Harper’s Bazaar and in their carts would be a single lamb chop and maybe two cans of cat food and the Sunday morning paper, the early edition with the comics wrapped outside. They would be very pretty some of the time, their skirts the right length and their sunglasses the right tint and maybe only a little vulnerable tightness around the mouth, but there they were, one lamb chop and some cat food and the morning paper. To avoid giving off the signs, Maria shopped always for a household, gallons of grapefruit juice, quarts of green chile salsa, dried lentils and alphabet noodles, rigatoni and canned yams, twenty-pound boxes of laundry detergent. She knew all the indices to the idle lonely, never bought a small tube of toothpaste, never dropped a magazine in her shopping cart. The house in Beverly Hills overflowed with sugar, corn-muffin mix, frozen roasts and Spanish onions. Maria ate cottage cheese.
— from "Play It As It Lays" by Joan Didion

The Cry Towel

Every single girl should own a cry towel, which is really nothing more than a crappy hand towel that's used exclusively used for sobbing into (or, alternatively–but still in the same vein–removing eye makeup). For sappy movies, tissues will do the job, but cry towels? Cry towels are reserved for serious sobbing sessions because they prevent you from ruining your 600 thread count pillowcases, as seen in Exhibit A above. 

"I'm sick of working so hard and crying so much," sniffled a girlfriend of mine, with mascara-laden tears streaming down her cheeks, as she sat on my bed, telling me about her terrible, horrible, no-good, rotten day. 

"Wait, I have to get something."

I got out from under my covers and fished out my spare cry towel from a stack of linens in the closet. "Here," I said, handing it to her, "I don't even care if you blow snot onto it."

She dabbed at her face and the session continued.

The World's Worst Dater

What makes me the world's worst dater?

As of this year, I've noticed that:

1. I can be completely anti-social. Every so often I'll implement a "no new people" rule.
2. I can be totally irritable. Thanks, Work!... Which leads me to the next point...
3. I work so much that being at home in bed sounds way more appealing than making small talk with a stranger. There are days where I daydream about having cereal for dinner while watching Sex and the City reruns.
4. I know nothing about relationships anymore. 
5. Dating sounds exhausting. 

"You're jaded," said a friend of mine.

Her diagnosis couldn't be more spot-on. I used to get butterflies in my stomach and be sparkly and lovely and light. A real joy to be around, if I do say so myself. Now I'm just a cynical spinster! Great. 


The Woman Destroyed

his is the longest I've gone being single. Like, actively single. No pressure thinking about what relationship may come. Just doing my thang... 

Free and happy. And maybe sometimes a little bit lonely.

I'm starting to wonder if it's a choice on my part or circumstances. Lately, I've been consumed with work. Could possibly be because work serves as the natural distraction. I don't know, but I don't mind. I'm OK.

Distractions can only last for so long. There has to be a goal or some end to this, right?

The woman is not thinking wedding bells. The woman is not thinking marriage and children. The woman s not thinking a picket white fence. The woman is not thinking about being the perfect woman. he woman is destroyed. 

And she's putting herself back together.

 

On TVs (Or the Lack Thereof)

"I'm not getting a state-of-the art TV," said a fellow single girl, "Just something to break the ice."

It seems, as single girls, our social life hinges on one thing: owning a TV. Somehow, inviting someone over to watch a movie via HuluPlus/Netflix/iTunes on your laptop doesn't quite have the same ring to it. That's something you'd do once you have a boyfriend. Although, even then, it's kind of lame. 

And if you do get a TV, where are you supposed to put it?

If you're living with a roommate, you don't want it in the living room. It'll just give your roomie a license to hang out on the sofa and watch your TV. Excuse me. No, you do not own half the rights to watch whatever you want whenever you want. *said while snatching away the remote control* (Do remote controls even exist anymore or have TVs advanced beyond that?)

Then again, if it's in your bedroom, it would have to be across from your bed. In which case, if you invite someone over to watch TV, you may as well say, "Well, how about let's take off our clothes too?"

So, you see where our dilemma lies.

On top of that, as evidenced in my question about remote controls above, I would have no earthly idea what to look for in a TV. What's good? What's cool? What's now? Will I have to take a 4-hour workshop just to learn how to work a TV? Why is there more than one remote control? Would it be weird if a guy came over and I brought out 3-D goggles because my TV was so baller? As far as I'm concerned, the only buttons I ever need to know are: power, volume, the up-and-down channel thing, and mute. 

Looks like I won't be hosting an Oscar-watching party this year. 

Anybody want to come over for a cup of tea?