I’m tired of waking up by myself. I roll over and there’s plenty of room in my bed; there’s no one waiting for me in the kitchen.
I’m tired of eating breakfast alone. I turn on the TV so there’s some noise while I make my food. It’s not conversation, but it’s better than silence.
I’m tired of having things happen during the day and having no one to tell when I get home. The baby at work who randomly started screaming. The way my co-workers started a volleyball game across cube walls. All stories that could be told. If only there were someone to tell them to.
I’m tired of being a third wheel. Or a fifth wheel. Or a seventh wheel. I act like it doesn’t bother me when we’re all hanging out, but really, it becomes just another reminder that I’m alone.
I’m tired of people telling me that they don’t understand why I’m single. Other people, they say, it’s easy to figure out why they’re alone. They’re mean or angry or have no drive. I’m smart, I’m attractive, I’m successful…I should have girls lining up to date. Or so they say. They can’t pick anything out that’s wrong with me so I shouldn’t really be single.
I’m tired of people saying that they’re sure I’ll meet someone who’s wonderful and smart and more beautiful than all of the girls I’ve dated before. And then, they promise, I’ll be so happy that nothing else will matter.
I’m tired of going to weddings alone and having the bride or groom ask why I didn’t bring a date. And then remarking that there won’t be many single girls there. And then seating me at the rejects table because I don’t “belong” with anyone else.
I’m tired of seeing a musical, a play, or some other event that would be a lot of fun to take a date on. And then just not going.
I’m tired of my friends telling me that the last girl I asked out…the one who turned me down…isn’t good enough for me and she’ll regret it someday.
I’m tired of hearing that another one of my ex’s is getting married. Or engaged. Or is in a serious long-term relationship that seems to be “heading somewhere.”
I’m tired of my parents remarking that by my age they already had two kids. And then remarking that they’d like to have grandchildren before they turn 70.
I’m tired of coming home after work to an empty apartment. I don’t get to discuss the day or ask anyone how their day was.
I’m tired of eating dinner alone, on the floor, in front of the TV. My kitchen table gets no use. There’s no need for setting it when it’s just me eating there.
I’m tired of cooking for one. Which usually means I make too much and either throw the rest out or try to freeze it. But then I have no one to remind me that I have leftovers, so it just goes bad anyways.
I’m tired of unwinding by myself. My couch isn’t nearly as comfortable without someone to cuddle with.
I’m tired of going to bed alone. The bed is always exactly as I left it. My side untucked, the other side tucked. It’s clear that only one person has slept there. And only one person will sleep there again tonight.
I’m tired of being single.