Tag: writer

Keywords: essay , friendship , love , self

One of my favourite parts of my day is cooking dinner just for myself. The other day, as I was walking to my local shop, and I had to position my umbrella in a certain way so that the couple walking towards me, who were sharing an umbrella, didn’t crash into me. I remember thinking that it would make a really good scene in a Fleabag-esque show, where the protagonist is single and unlucky in love and everyone else manages to get into relationships and make joint dinners and split the tasks. They are probably looking at a list they wrote together and saying, “you get the potatoes, I’ll get the butter.” Whereas, there I am, staring at sushi and debating if it’s going to be a sweet or savory bagel week. Then it hits me that this is my life, and that being single for my twenties isn’t just some hypothetical possibility, but is a real version of reality that I live in. It’s gone past the point of randomly sending my friends texts that say ‘will I ever be lovable?’ and has simply become my state of being. The self pitying is slowly evaporating and I’ll sternly tell myself ‘you are living it. This is it. It’s lovely and it’s also sometimes hard. By the way you’re going to crash into that couple coming towards you if you don’t move your umbrella’. Sometimes, I reminisce on the times where I’ve acted like a pretend girlfriend for a week maximum, and then I’ll make a joke to myself that it’s a bit like when people go on those intensive courses where you learn how to drive in seven days and then pass your test. I keep failing my test. Only metaphorically, obviously, I can’t drive because I always live in big cities with public transport and none of my shoes are sensible. Some couples make me believe that love is real, and acknowledge that it isn’t just a pretend feeling people curate so they can tick off ‘get married’ in their mental to-do list. Other times I’ll see a man in a peacoat and a scarf talk down to his partner and tell her that her friends are all too dramatic and hysterical. Then I consider myself one of the lucky ones. There you have it, another contradiction. Love is both real and not real, it’s a jackpot to know what you’re getting yourself into. I would rather be alone for the rest of my life than have a man in a sensible coat think he can patronise me in the street, and I mean that truly.

https://elliciaroxanne.wordpress.com/2021/11/12/contradictions