I'm having one of those rare days in which I actually sort-of-secretly think it might not be so bad to have a partner in life. I know, I know, I'm an independent lady, unfettered by conventions, laughing with defiance in the face of society's expectations for me to settle down, get married, have kids, buy a house and be a grown-up. I love being single and selfish and wild and free to do whatever I goddamn please. 98% of the time. But it's been a 2% kind of week. Let me explain.
I just took my 14-year-old(?) cat, Tilly, to the vet for the first time ever. The 4-1/2 mile drive took us 45 minutes, and when we got there a mean man honked at us for jaywalking and I yelled bad words back at him, which is not what Buddhas do, but I have a cold and I'm cranky from traffic and the guilt of irresponsible pet ownership, and secretly I'm afraid Tilly is dying and it's my fault and she's my little tiny friend since forever.
Inside, the animal hospital reeked of ammonia and betrayal, which is probably what Tilly felt as she lay splayed on the aluminum exam table while a strange man - who looked a little bit like Abed from Community but with less humor - stuck a cold metal stick up her butt and stripped her of all remaining dignity. She took it like a champ, old girl, which broke my heart even more. Because she was just defeated. Then the doctor asked me questions and told me some stuff that I didn't fully understand because of his accent and my ignorance, but then he came back in and showed me the bill, and I understood that I was being punished for my poor cat-parenting. But I said, okay, do what you need to do, doctor. And he took her x-rays and some of her blood and gave her shots and I sat in the waiting room, worrying about money and vowing not to spend any for the next two to three months.
Then the doctor took my money, gave me my cat and some medicine, and I drove Tilly home to rest while I went to the store to get her the food she likes, because she been so brave. But I got distracted by products, because shopping makes me feel better about life for a minute, and I ended up spending $50 on cleaning supplies, snacks, a hair mask, bath salts, lip gloss, and cilantro, then I felt even more guilty and vowed to return the cosmetics and hair mask, and as I was walking to my car with my plastic bags of shame, I realized I just wanted a hug. I just wanted to not have to confront every life crisis alone. Because it's not just the big stuff, like my sick cat. It's the big load of laundry and sink full of dishes and dining room strewn with clothing and unpacked boxes (because where else do such things go?). It's not knowing how to hang pictures or clean anything properly. It's the stupid color I dyed my hair, and the responsibilities that are really benefits but often look like eventual disappointment on faces I've let down. It's the constant goddamn struggle to stay afloat in recovery and love and hope, when the weight of depression, anxiety, addiction and a million little nagging voices are clawing to bring me low.
And listen, I know I don't need to be in a committed relationship in order to not be alone. I have amazing friends who would be more than willing to lend me their wisdom, their sympathy, their support, their arms, or their empty flattery, depending on the demands of the crisis at hand. So don't get me wrong, this isn't a plea for sympathy or a cry for help or a white flag surrendering my independent ladydom. It's just an honest observation that sometimes being single is tough. And a clear indication that I need to work on asking for help. Because no matter how much time I spend on Buzzfeed DIY, I just can't seem to create the perfectly organized, cleverly-decorated, Pinterest-worthy apartment that the internet has led me to believe I need.
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