Loving singledom

Besides the fact that the newest polling that single people outnumber married people in the United States, most of the time the pressure to be coupled is upon me. I hear it in my mother's desperate pleas during our weekly phone calls. I see it when I am the fifth wheel yet again at dinner. I feel it when I buy my frozen dinners for that serve two at Trader Joe's (because really those dinners made for two are tastier than the single serving bowls).

But there are other times when I come to realize that I love being single. And more often than not they occur when I do something normally considered disgusting or weird. For example, when I let out a little gas in the middle of the night under my nice warm covers, I am glad no one is there sharing it with me because frankly I would not appreciate the reciprocal. Or knowing that my Costco cotton underwear will never give me a wedgie and having no one to be turned off by their granny like qualities.

On Sunday, I went running with D and S. After Saturday's night of mild drinking, it was a struggle, but as I hit snooze for the fifth time I motivated to get up. There was no one to complain about my overuse of snooze or waking them at 7:30 am on a Sunday. I wore the world's ugliest running outfit (silver, aqua shoes, pink socks, black tights, red shorts over the tights, and a royal blue thermal top), and went to Cambridge to meet up with everybody. We had a pleasant run, but by the time I got back to my apartment I realized I was late for my shopping date with H.

But what was I to do, I was ravenous and obviously smelly from exercise. As I microwaved my two servings of Trader Giotto's gnocchi sorentina, I had a moment of brilliance. I would eat and shower at the same time. So there I was shampooing my hair between intermittent bites of chewy potato dumplings. And the bonus was two servings was exactly the amount of food I needed.