I read an article recently that said intelligent people would rather spend their lives alone than settle for an incompatible mate. Once I got past the loose use of the word “mate”, I really appreciated the idea of this study. It gives me ammo for the inevitable questions at family gatherings and unfortunate run-ins with high school classmates. I’m mere weeks from my thirtieth birthday and have yet to date anyone longer than three months. Let me rephrase that. I have yet to be able to date anyone for longer than three months. Because humans are weird, and spending tons of time with one human brings to light all of that weirdness. There has to be something there to combat the ick factor and make me want to see their face again without the urge to strike it with a blunt object.
That something, for me, is simply a lack of pressure. If I’m not feeling pressured to make something romantic happen with a person, I can get along with them famously. This is perhaps why I feel most comfortable around gay people. They’re not going to try to sex me up and I’m not going to have the urge to gaze longingly into their collective downstairs. Without sexual tension I’m able to quip freely and often and maintain friendly relationships for decades. With it, however, I’m awkward and full of unmet expectations. The list of which only gets longer as I get older. After all, the years are stacking up on me and my baby making organs are beginning the slow descent into uselessness.
Biological clocks and romantic pressure aside, I’m turned off by any number of behavioral and wardrobal idiosyncrasies. Not the least of which are man-tank tops and man-sandals. And glasses with transition lenses. I just can’t. And you shouldn’t. A few other things that send me running for the proverbial hills are a penchant for sleep-snuggling and the expectation that all of my free time must be morphed into we time. Because, no.
My longest running relationship is with Netflix and eating inappropriate things in bed and I’m completely unwilling to give that up. Netflix gets me. It anticipates my needs and checks on me when it thinks I’ve been binge-watching Gilmore Girls too long to still be categorized as a healthy human. And it doesn’t get mad at me for dismissing the concern and continuing to binge for another four hours. Netflix lets me be me. If Netflix could father my children, I’d be in romantic bliss. But, it can’t. Not yet, anyway. I’m looking at you, technological geniuses. Make it happen for me so that I can stop eyeing wide-eyed child-nuggets with a fleeting intention to kidnap them.
Biological clocks are a real thing. Even if the ticking is against the will of the person hosting the evil uterus. My internal clock ticks most loudly at night when it penetrates my sleep with dreams of procreation. I wake up and frantically check my stomach to be sure it isn’t engorged with a tiny human and relieved, fall back into a childless sleep. I assume I’ll never marry and I’m too cautious to get knocked up by mistake, so my choices are basically to trick someone handsome into fathering my mid-life baby or to adopt well into my forties. I’m leaning toward adoption, since I’ve seen childbirth happen and frankly, I’m not into it. At least with adoption I can pick out physical attributes like accessories. That is what is most important in a child, isn’t it?
I’d hate to clash with my baby like plaid and stripes and have to return it.