“Jesus!” said my fed-up roommate to her lonely-hearts dinner guests. “They’re only men – and most of them are pathetic. Haven’t we got anything better to talk about?”
‘Oh my God, I just don’t want to be a single any more,” wailed a girlfriend of mine as she slumped on my sofa last week.
I offered her a cup of tea.
Here was a woman who has a successful job in fashion, a million friends, a book project under way and an apartment in the West Village. But none of it mattered.
It was as if all the other brilliant aspects of her life were made totally insignificant by that one “single” definition.
OK. So it was Valentine’s Day and we were all feeling a bit tense, but seeing my friend so distraught made me wonder: Since when did a natural – but harmless – preoccupation with love, romance and relationships get magnified for so many of us into a soul-draining obsession?
Somewhere along the line in the past decade, the concept of being single went from “what you happened to call yourself when you were between boyfriends” to being the most defining aspect of someone’s character.
Now, it seems that someone’s dating status is treated as more fundamental to her personality than anything else she does.
Without fail, one of the first adjectives to pop up when you are introduced to others is “single” – as in “meet Bridget. She’s English – and she’s single.”
And who hasn’t heard or said the words, “Will I be the only single person there?” Or, “We singles must stick together.”
But if you think about it, it’s crazy that when there are so many potential ways to describe people, the most significant thing about them is whether they are in a relationship. Even worse – if they’re not, it frequently sets them apart from anyone who is.
I admit I have been a culprit in the singleness obsession. Not only do I write this column, but I frequently gravitate toward fellow singles as if we’re all in some special-needs club. And, I admit, it’s the first thing I want to know about anyone I meet.
Two weeks ago, I flew to the U.K. for a long weekend. On my flight out of Newark, I found myself sitting next to a cute guy, about my age, who told me he worked as a field doctor in Tanzania.
“But are you single????” was all I wanted to ask, imagining stories of love found on airplanes.
While we struck up a conversation about Africa – which I should have found fascinating – I barely listened as I tried to crane across his seat to spot if he was wearing a wedding ring. Alas, he was. I put on my headphones.
Then, when I got to the U.K., I infuriated my friend when I asked if any of the 10 people she’d invited to spend the weekend at her country house were single.
“Some are – but I think you’ll find that everyone is very nice,” she retorted.
On that weekend, I was reminded that I could find as much in common with new people who are in couples as with those who are single.
But it was last weekend, back here in New York on Valentine’s Day, that I witnessed the worst singleness obsession.
It seems that what was once a silly date on the calendar now can make people who are single feel inadequate to the core.
All day I had single friends calling me in a panic, asking what was going on that evening – as though it were New Year’s Eve.
They felt that staying in alone on Valentine’s Day was a real sign that they lived tragic lives, rather than a mere coincidence that on Feb. 14 they didn’t happen to be dating.
That evening, my roommate decided to cook up a big roast for all her single girlfriends.
They arrived while I was still getting ready to go out (with a couple of my girlfriends) and I listened to them talking around our kitchen table.
And guess what they talked about – obsessively?
Each one was obsessing over what some guy had said to her, or what a girlfriend had said to a guy, and what should be her next move.
That was until my no-nonsense roommate cut through it all.
“Jesus!” she said. “They’re only men and most of them are pathetic. Haven’t we got anything better to talk about?”