A Post from the Future

“No, I’m single,” I heard my 32-year old self say.
“Why?” is an automatic follow up question.

It’s a broken record and even if I put you on mute and look away I’d still make out the pity in your voice and the unmistakable curiosity in your eyes.  It’s not that you’re predictable, it’s just that over the years, this conversation has become more or less generic.  I know exactly how it goes.

You’d wait impatiently for an answer. I would pull out my sincerest smile and shrug an “I don’t know, must be unlucky”. You will disapprovingly shake your head and say, “That’s not an answer”. In my head I punched you in the face. I’d look at you, still smiling, and you, completely unaware of the discomfort you’re causing,  still get to wait for a reply. I’ll try to come up with a less vague answer and this time say “I had a few <strike>roadblocks</strike> relationships in the past but you know if it’s not meant to be, it’s not”. For a second there, you’ll accept it as an explanation, but then your ever scrutinizing self won’t yield and so in all kindness you say “Maybe you should give it a try, expand your circles, take a chance.”

Between the likes of you and the ringless finger in my hand, it’s become clear that my social status will not let me get away without much of an explanation. I know you mean well by asking. And your good-natured advices, I took them to heart. I just don’t know how else I can tell you it’s just how things have been and it’s nobody’s fault.

I’m skipping this part.