“Rules for One” is a bimonthly lifestyles column that investigates how to be successfully single.
Family, hairdressers, colleagues, even doctors shame you for being single. All of a sudden if you answer no to the inevitable question of are you seeing anyone, you are a leper, unkempt for society. They view you as someone who needs to be groomed and entwined into couplets. In their eyes, what you need is another half to turn you into a proper, successful individual, to complete you as a whole.
On chance encounters in Whole Foods, old friends don’t initially ask, “Oh hey, how’s your master’s degree coming along? What are you working on right now? Any new published work?” Nope, the first question out of their mouth is, “So, are you seeing anyone?” When the answer is no, they squirm. They search for the right pity face and then try to quickly hide their disappointment in your failure at achieving the dream of every American girl in her 20s.
During these occasions, my inner-journalist comes out and I begin to wonder, if I were to switch my answer and go along with their whimsical ideas of life and love, could I beat the beast? Could I save myself the misery of that extra spin class since I ate the entire eight-by-eight pan of brownies to drown my insecurities of solitude in good old reliable chocolate?
So I tried it, and my hypothesis was proven correct. When I answered yes to the unavoidable dating question, and described my very handsome, funny, attractive and wealthy new imaginary boyfriend, (circumstances like these are when being a fiction writer comes in handy) acquaintances and friends alike eased their pitiful faces into reassured smiles, glad that I had finally made it into the adult world with a man on my arm. A successful human.
But even if they felt better, I felt worse. I couldn’t understand why I should have to become man-hungry and use my spare time for hunting instead of writing that novel that’s been circling my brain. If it was good enough for me to be single and successful at something other that relationships, it should be good enough for the vast public as well.
There are plenty of very successful woman who are not only single but are creating lives of their very own. Women like Diane Keaton, Oprah Winfrey and Barbara Walters aren’t feeling the pressure to subdue to other’s expectations, and neither do I.
I won’t lower my standards in life or love just to fit my puzzle piece into someone else’s. As a writer, I have high expectations of what my work can become, and like all artists, this work needs time. If I am going to go out on a date with someone instead of writing a few thousand words, then he better meet all my prerequisites. I will not forfeit, throw up the white flag of desperation. I will not marry my Nana’s surgeon. I won’t sit through another dinner with that guy who feels the need to order for me (tilapia may be a low-fat fish, but I don’t like it or what you are implying by repeatedly ordering it). Or re-date all the men who have failed me in the past, in hopes that one will suffice.
I am one of those strange people who is addicted to “The Bachelor” franchise. Each season, I say, “No, Caroline, you will not watch that terrible show. You will do something productive or educational instead.” But I give in to my impulses every time and watch as an entire group of women fall victim to the game of love. They are willing to give up everything for the sake of a relationship that, odds are, won’t work out. They leave their lives, their careers, their friends, pack a few suitcases and say sayonara to who they used to be.
People say that love is worth giving up everything for. I agree. Love is in fact worth it all. Crazy, honest, silly, kind, sexy, real love. Not giving in to society’s views of what makes you a worthy participant and settling for something that is less than what you’d hoped. In that sense, “The Bachelor” is educational. If it takes seeing yourself on national television topless and crying over a guy you barely know to snap you back to reality, then so be it. For the rest of us, we’ll learn from your mistakes from the safety of our dignity-filled couches.
