A terrifying thing happened to me recently ... I realized I was well into my thirties--and that I was more single than ever. How the hell had this happened?
In my younger days, it had never occurred to me that I'd be unlucky in love for so long. I'd always assumed I'd find true romance without much trouble, at a relatively young age; say, 25, or so. Certainly by 28. Certainly by 30.
But no such luck. And now that another four years have passed, still without me discovering the love of my life—or, really, even, a half-way decent relationship—I'm starting to worry it might never happen. My anxiety levels have reached an all-time high.
Because I still want the fairy tale. By that, I don't mean wearing a small disco ball on my finger; I'm not talking about throwing some kind of frilly affair at a well-groomed country club; and I certainly don't want a house in the suburbs with a mini-van. I don't care if my Prince Charming is wearing jeans and Addidas sneakers, a bespoke suit, or a frog costume—just as long as he's interested in a happily-ever-after.
But will I ever find this dude? I'm beginning to think I won't. And there's something about being well into my thirties without him that seems especially scary. Maybe that's because—as a recent magazine story informed me—I'll have hit my physical peak by the time I hit my 35th birthday. Apparently, whatever looks I might have—along with my muscle tone, my athletic skill, and my egg quality—will only decline after that. All of which seems to indicate that if I don't find someone in the next year or so, it's only going to get exponentially harder. And it seems nearly impossible already!
Luckily, though, I realized there was something I could do about it: I could spend the next year living flirtatiously. I'll get into more details about that very soon. First, though, I'll tell you a little more about me ... tomorrow.
