I feel like I’ve heard about the so-called 50% divorce rate for as long as I can remember. But lately I am struggling to figure out where exactly these “experts” are getting their numbers from, especially since I seem to be the only girl that I know sitting home on the weekends with my thumb up my ass, while all of my friends are hanging with their husbands and kids. I am on nearly every dating site imaginable, and at this point I can’t open up an app without recognizing dozens of guys that I’ve already ignored on some other app. It’s the same sea of faces over and over again wherever I turn. And it blows. These “dating apps” used to at least be able to amuse and entertain me if nothing else, but they don’t even do that anymore. All they do now is create a sense of panic as I begin to realize that I will probably be alone for the rest of my life. I practically shit myself with excitement on the rare occasion that a new and attractive profile of a single man appears. However the hyperventilation and underboob sweat quickly subsides when I reach out to him and never hear back. I think it may be easier to catch Bigfoot than it is to catch the eye of any newbies, since they immediately get swarmed by all of the other piranhas the minute they create their profiles. The idea of fighting for a man’s attention is about as appealing to me as a yeast infection…
I’ve decided that if I am really going to blame anyone for my current situation I am going to blame my vagina. In fact, I have decided that I hold her 99% responsible for the demise of every single one of my relationships. Now don’t get me wrong, she and I have been besties for a while (except for that 7 year period in which she completely abandoned me during my marriage – but more on that at another time). In fact, she has become the one friend that I can count on to almost always make me happy….which is why it’s hard for me to say this – but I fucking hate the bitch.
So I was out at a bar the other night with my only other single friend. We had gotten some prime real estate at a high-top table by the bar, ordered some drinks, and waited for the hot single guys to start walking in. Clearly we must have been high, because at our ages (35 and 39) hot and single are practically oxymoron’s. If a really attractive guy walks in you can bet one of three things: a) he’s married, b) he’s gay, or c) he’s an enormous douchebag with intimacy issues. A hot, available, and emotionally stable guy is about as common as a unicorn. And if a unicorn were to trot into the bar I was in, the competition to lasso and mount that bitch would be fierce!
So it’s a Saturday night, and like many other Saturday nights in the past few months, I am sitting on my couch still wearing the pajamas that I woke up in, watching my dog sit on strike next to his full food bowl, staring at me in silent protest. Not sure what his problem is, but it probably has to do with the fact that I am no fun and that he definitely did not hit the mommy lottery when he got stuck with me. Most likely he’s thinking to himself, “bitch, seriously, go take a shower already and preferably get out of the house, you loser, so I can destroy some shit up in here.” The fact that my 5-month old puppy has a more active social life than me (I mean, he has become friendly with at least 3 dogs in the neighborhood) has not gone unnoticed by either of us. Continue reading