20nothing.com

I recently bought a seven dollar ring and have been wearing it on my ring finger. At first I did it so that said digit would actually get some use and seven dollars is, coincidentally, about the value I deem acceptable for anything that is supposed to proclaim something on it.

Then I realized that my frivolous decision had a subconscious importance.

“Are you engaged!?” a girl I will never have a common interest with squealed.

I almost jumped in to yell “No!” before the panic attack set in. But, instead, I had a quick epiphany.

“Yes!” I beamed. “To myself.”

While most people just have casual sex with their hands, I decided to relieve mine from their exhausting job of holding cigarettes and employ them for love.

 

My longest relationship with a boy lasted two and a half years. I frequently tell Him that it will [probably] remain the longest I will ever have [and then I wonder how the Hell I made it that far]. My next boyfriend was around for one year. Then the next was six months. And then twelve weeks.

The severe decline in longevity is of no accident and, to me, no problem. Because throughout all the coming and going (and coming again) in my bed, the only thing that evolved, strengthened and became enlightened [other than my stamina] has been the relationship with myself.

 

Twenty-four years and counting. Sure, sometimes I want to break-up with me, citing Irreconcilable Differences and risking a spousal abuse charge, other times I wish I was just my own fuck buddy, but mostly, I love me. Flaws and all.

 

And, believe me, declaring that to myself was way harder than any sort of emotion I have had to hint to any twenty-year-old.

 

After I downgraded (upgraded?) to the three-month-long relationship mark, I decided to just stop completely, figuring I was wasting my time trying to get other people to love me. I had the initial epiphany that [maybe] I just needed to focus on trying to love myself first. I decided to allow guys to float in and out of my consciousness, and bed, rather than only momentarily remembering that I always exist as an individual human being in between entertaining those twenty-year-olds.

 

Forty-two hours is my relationship capacity at this moment in time. Sorry. I exaggerate. Forty-one. The last sixty minutes is actually spent wondering how the Hell I made it that far and Why He is still allowed to breathe, let alone exist. The decline is rapidly heading towards negative-digits-territory.

 

The problem is, I have spent so much time enjoying the company of eligible bachelors for anywhere in between nine minutes and nine hours, with very little need for conversation or emphasis on longevity, that even by hour ten I am completely ignorant of what to do with Him. Picking apart His very soul is the only way I can think to occupy myself [and justify my behaviour]. The only other distraction is out of the question because, usually, by that time, I no longer have the ability to walk let alone have anymore sex and even I am bored by the activity.

 

Many people deplore the ten AM check-out time in hotels. But I applaud them. The hospitality industry, somewhat coincidently, directly correlates with my own mental check-out of a relationship. In fact, hotels are actually nicer than I. I lack the “extend your stay” option and never bring breakfast to someone in bed. Don’t get me started on the maids uniform I don’t own.

 

Ten o’clock in the morning swung around at about hour thirty-nine of my latest relationship. At the time, I had no idea that forty-one was going to be the magic number (Ha! No. Not that magic number) but I certainly was curious to find out how long it would take me to spontaneously combust. I almost wanted to have a video camera in my hand, instead of a ring, because I could anticipate that the melt-down would be a perfect addition to the hilarious work on YouTube.

For thirty-nine hours, I hadn’t retreated, reflected or, you know, showered and I desperately needed a blank wall to stare at and a mountain of soap.

“What should we do today?” He asked.

I wanted to say, “Shoot kittens” or something of equal stature that would scare the Hell out of him and have him running to the hills so I could retreat into a world of silence and Me. But I always stop myself from saying those kind of things out of fear that I am sleeping with the one person in the world who gets off on that kind of stuff.  

 

Hour forty-one floated around in what felt like ninety-two million hours. I was about to start hyperventilating because I don’t live alone on this planet. Instead, I decided to just get out of bed. But before the panic attack set in, I had a quick epiphany.

Maybe he was just as sick of me.

 

The calmness I felt over the thought that someone may be over me as an individual human being, tired of my bullshit and sick of the sight of nakey me, gave me enough energy to get me to my car without committing any capital crimes or unnecessarily insulting anyone. I drove home, alone, thinking that maybe the solution to my [already ridiculous and laughable] love life is to find people who can only stand me for, at most, the time it takes me to smoke a cigarette.  

Luckily, I can stand myself for at least seven.