In my early 20s, I was unflinchingly, self-righteously single.
I booked holidays for one, cackled my way through comedy gigs alone and spent Sundays at the cinema with snacks for two, thrilled at not having to share. I was the person who chatted to bar staff and Uber drivers, took the table for one in the window and ate in committed solitude.
I dated, resigned to the endless cycle of Tinder dates and the inevitable disappointment, but began to see myself as ‘The Single One’.
I rolled my eyes at PDAs and bit my tongue listening to coupled-up friends talk about buying expensive gifts for their beaus. I attended weddings, inwardly placing bets on when the divorce would go through, utterly cynical. I was a bit of a cow, really.
But then I fell in love.
I fell in love with the best man in the world and to my utmost surprise, George loved me too.
We met on Bumble and it was instantly easy, the way people tell you it will be. Suddenly all the songs on the radio were about us. Tube kissing became acceptable. Morning breath – on the right person – really wasn’t so bad after all.
In those first few weeks we’d do anything to squeeze in extra time together, turning up at each other’s work with coffees, meeting at Waterloo for a snog before going our separate ways home.
Soon we had a shared calendar and Netflix and joint-bills accounts, all pretty standard stuff, and for the first year of our relationship our friends accommodated our excitable double act at every lunch date, coffee or party.
Six months after that we moved in together and became a ‘we couple’. We’re the most ‘we’ of the couples I know. There’s not a worry, password or rash George and I don’t share with each other. Most evenings I’ll follow him into the loo as we continue telling each other about our days.
We’re rarely apart, other than to attend work, a stretch of time that feels like an unreasonable stint away from one another.
Our families look on bemused as we think nothing of sharing a mug of tea, or handing over unlocked phones. Quite soon into our relationship we started using a GPS tracking app to follow each other just because, well… it’s incredibly handy and makes us both feel safer (he cycles through central London, OK?)
I have no reservations about how intertwined our lives have become – my life is better for it. However, in the words of everyone’s favourite man-seeking-singleton Carrie Bradshaw, ‘I couldn’t help but wonder…’ what my former single-self would make of me as a ‘we’. Draped in all my newfound happiness, with shared plans and dreams, I guess I’m pretty unrecognisable.
There has never been a better time to be single, after all. ‘Single’ is no longer just a phase women hope to grow out of but a legitimate state where we can thrive – last year, it was reported unmarried childless women are the happiest subsection of society whilst ‘solo marriages’ (possibly one of the weirdest headlines ever) are on the rise.
Lizzo – the singer who put the sing in ‘single’ – continues to reign supreme and the only thing anyone could remember from Emma Watson’s Vogue interview was her coining the phrase ‘self-partnered’.
It’s a powerful movement but one I only want to watch from the side-lines. I tried desperately to buy into it, and I guess I’ll always carry a little bit of shame for never fully participating. But the truth is – and I’m sorry RuPaul – I never really loved my single-self.
Single Me may have enjoyed her meal for one but she was also spikey, judgmental and jealous.
Yes, I dug into my career, took up hobbies and travelled alone but I didn’t do it with a feeling of strength, marveling at my independence. I hated being alone, I felt constantly unworthy and spent the whole time on dating apps, frantically swiping right.
There is also a confusing double standard at play here – one that almost every woman I know has faced. First we are told to find ourselves a man – and quickly, lest we end up empty spinsters – then we’re chastised for losing ourselves to that same relationship.
The thing that really saved me was George.
Falling in love with the person who completely loved me in return has taught me I am worth loving. Losing myself to a relationship has been, ironically, the thing that has made me like who I am.
Having someone who’s always on my side, always there to return an eye-roll and squeeze my hand when stuff gets scary makes me braver, more capable and frankly, just a nicer person.
I know that becoming a ‘we’ – with so much of my future pinned to another person – raises some uncomfortable questions. If we split up (heaven forbid) would I still be enough on my own? The even more uncomfortable conclusion is that maybe I wouldn’t.
If I could have been one of those amazing, strong, independent people who loved themselves first I would – but I’m just not part of that love story.
Last week in Love, Or Something Thing Like It: I helped my boyfriend to grieve his wife
Write for Love, Or Something Like It
Love, Or Something Like It is a new series for Metro.co.uk, covering everything from mating and dating to lust and loss, to find out what love is and how to find it in the present day.
If you have a love story to share, email rosy.edwards@metro.co.uk
MORE: I met my husband on a sex website
MORE: I’m marrying below my expectations and I couldn’t be happier
MORE: In a mixed-faith relationship, true love is about respect
source https://metro.co.uk/2020/01/11/lost-relationship-never-happier-12003888/
0 Comments