“How long has it been since your last relationship?”
That’s the question I dreaded most when I was dating.
Or I’d fudge (OK, lie).
Once, I told a man “about three years” when the actual figure was closer to six.
He didn’t miss a beat, asking, “What’s wrong with you?”
To be fair, I don’t think he was being deliberately rude.
In all other ways, I was a well-functioning adult.
I owned my apartment, was a successful writer and had plenty of friends.
But when it came to having a lasting relationship, I was seemingly clueless.
None of this brought me any closer to landing a boyfriend.
A fear of commitment, perhaps?
Several gently suggested that I could be too picky or not getting “out there” enough.
The implications made me even more frustrated.
I was out there!
I went on Internet dates, speed dates, blind dates, you name it.
I attended birthday parties of acquaintances and took kickboxing and improv classes.
Despite having many pleasant conversations, they never translated into a committed, meaningful relationship.
I turned 33, 34, 35, 36.
Yet even as I became healthier and more relaxed, I was still lonely.
I was the one reading all the books!
I was the one confronting my issues!
Why couldn’t I find someone to love?
This time, though, I lost it.
What did she think I’d been doing?
What was up with this idea that self-actualization was a pre-requisite for a lasting relationship, anyway?
I knew plenty of married people who carried around an entire grab bag of hang-ups and insecurities.
My protests only irritated Susan, who finally told me that I needed to get over my victim complex.
Then, somewhere over Pennsylvania, it suddenly hit me: I didn’t need a therapist.
Nor did I need to go on a meditation retreat or start cooking myself gourmet meals.
I wasn’t still single because I’d failed to meet some mysterious standard of emotional development.
I was single because I hadn’t yet met the right guy.
I wanted someone to look me in the eye and say: “There’s nothing wrong with you.
You don’t need to change or fix yourselfyou just need a little luck.”
But that was all right, because now, finally, I was saying them to myself.
And most importantly, I actually believed them.
When I got back home, I declared my self-improvement project officially complete.
Instead, my life proceeded pretty much as it had before.
But something inside me had shifted: I no longer took my single state personally.
I also stopped complaining.
When someone asked why I was single, I responded, “I don’t know.”
I was neither fabulous nor pathetic.
I was simply me.
I met him because I took a temporary gig at his office to earn some extra money.
On our first date, he asked me how long it had been since my last relationship.
(Sadly, self-acceptance never comes in a full sweep.)
I clenched my fists, ready for an incredulous “What’s up with that?!”
Instead, he shrugged, unfazed.
“Lucky me,” he said.
“Those other guys were idiots.”
And so, my story does have a happy ending.
Mark and I have been together for nearly four years now.
What my story doesn’t entail is a five-step action plan for finding a mate.
We have common values and interests: an affinity for ’70s sitcoms, dogs and politics.
In fact, to my mind, it seems like plenty.
Photo Credit: Terry Doyle
