Why I Love Singlehood: by Elisa Lorello, Sarah Girrell Page B

“Why?”
    “Do you want to be? I mean, do you mind not being in a relationship?”
    “Yes and no.”
    “How yes and how no?” I asked.
    “No, I don’t mind because life is good and I’m on track and ready for the right woman that comes along. Yes, I mind because she hasn’t come along. Or she’s not ready yet.”
    “You’re just waiting for her to show up?”
    “Something like that.”
    How does one get to that point, to be so satisfied or willing to wait? My very first WILS post was about that very satisfaction: but since then, I’d lost it. In fact, I suddenly couldn’t remember ever feeling it.
    “Why don’t you go find her? How do you know she’s not waiting for you?” I handed him another stack of books.
    “You’ve got a point there,” he said.
    “I’m giving it all up—dating, I mean. It’s an endless cycle. Friday night was just one more reminder of why I love singlehood.”
    “Well, OK then. If it makes you happy. But I think you’re lying.”
    I stopped what I was doing and stared at him in shock. He smiled at me—a wide, bright smile. A Kenny smile.
    Kenny didn’t have Spencer’s square chin and high cheekbones, or Dean’s silky brown hair, or Norman’s puppy-dog eyes. He didn’t have Chris Noth’s million-dollar Mr. Big finesse or Hugh Jackman’s everything . He was six feet tall and gangly, with sandpaper hair that was cut unevenly and hazel eyes that were witness to the world around him. He was good-looking, but an awkward dresser. No, Kenny was someone you couldn’t appreciate unless you sat close, stopped talking, and waited for him to smile. His smile was infectious, the kind that lit up his whole face. You couldn’t forget Kenny’s smile. It just wasn’t possible.
    Sitting on the floor with him at that moment, I really looked at him, and smiled back.
    “You think I’m lying?” I asked.
    He nodded. “Through your teeth.”
    “About what?”
    “All of it,” he said. “Here’s the thing, Eva. Why don’t you stop proving to yourself and the world that you’re happier being single and just be happy for happy’s sake? Date, don’t date; get married, don’t get married; have kids, don’t have kids; do it because it’s really right for you and not because a whole bunch of blog-people with too much time on their hands—present company excluded,” he said, gesturing between the two of us, “are gonna lace into you for changing your mind or making a decision that doesn’t warrant pithy prose.”
    It took a full five seconds for me to realize that my mouth was open and nothing was coming out.
    “And I’ll tell you something else. The Tom Cruise guy was likely a tool,” he said.
    I laughed out loud, the first time all day long. All weekend, come to think of it.
    “And I would’ve checked your box had I been there, and not just because I know you. Pictures don’t lie.”
    “Bullshit,” I said in a hushed voice. “They lie all the time.”
    “That one didn’t.” He smiled again, and again I couldn’t avert my eyes quickly enough.
    I stood up, and he followed. “I’ll buy you a cup of coffee, Sailor,” I said, turning him around in the direction of the café tables, pushing him gently all the way.

     
    That evening, when I got home from The Grounds, I reread the speed dating post in mortification. It was so blunt, so revealing. How could I have been such a yutz? Jay and Minerva and Norman didn’t mind that I used their names, but I should have changed the others and kept Shaun out of it, for my sake and especially for his. Seventeen comments followed, all of which I perused until my eyes set on the last one, posted anonymously:
I didn’t know you felt this way.
    Could it have been Shaun? He had read the very first post of WILS, so who’s to say he didn’t read this one too? I furiously edited the post, changing names and other potentially comeback-to-bite-me-in-the-ass details, until I gave up, surrendering to the fact that the damage was