My Dear Married Friends

I realize I am 45 years old and single. Trust me, this is for the better given my ex spent most of his time and money snorting and shooting mind-altering chemicals. My being single is not a precursor to a plague that will wipe out the lovely, Mayberry-like appeal of our neighborhood. You will not catch it by hanging out with me and I promise, I am not interested in your husbands. (You've already damaged them enough to ensure a long happy marriage. But I love ya anyway!)

So why, oh why, must you continually advise me that my current state of singleness is an unhealthy condition that requires rapid repair? Yes, I actually look at that dating service you signed me up for last year on occasion. I let it expire, but the weirdos have not gone away. No, there really don't seem to be any eligible bachelors online looking to meet a woman my age. Sure, I got plenty of offers for dates (and other unmentionable activities), but the majority of the men were at least 10 years my senior or junior and the remainder were simply insane.

 

Really, it's okay to be single. It's okay to only date when I meet someone worthy of paying a sitter double the going rate to watch my hyper-active child. But most of all, it's okay for you to continue to include me in your lives even if I don't have a man attached to mine. I'm still the same person I was when I wasn't single, only without the giant boil attached to my life that made me miserable enough to want to flee to another country.

 

Sure, if you can find someone who still has his hair and teeth, isn't built like a keg or a marshmallow, has an IQ over 130 and is devoid of a criminal record, hidden wife and mental illness, you are welcome to show me a picture and attempt to arrange a meeting. But PLEASE, give me the opportunity to yay or nay before you invite your nerdy bald friend with a Napoleon complex to our next holiday get-together in the hopes of yanking me out of my happy single reverie. Call me shallow, but you will never be able to call me desperate. Being over 40 and single isn't a disease, and I don't need to be cured unless that cure is actually someone worthy of my time.

 

If you insist upon helping me with my single situation, then keep your eyes peeled for a 40-something version of a blue-eyed movie star named Chris sans the ego and penchant for saline-inflated body enhancements. That, or feel free to pitch in for a pair of those enhancements and a trip to Dr. DeWrinkle so I've got a shot at meeting someone my own age. Until you find him, let's focus on something, anything other than my dating life. Okay?