In the twelve months that I’ve been single I’ve simultaneously achieved a great deal and very little. I’ve had my share of dicks, both literal and figurative (more of the latter than the former), fallen in ‘like’ twice (and once more in ‘like-like’), learned that pride does indeed come before a fall, discovered that I like myself naked, challenged myself with some brave new experiences, shed 16 kilos, discovered the catharsis in publically celebrating one’s greatest humiliations, discovered more surprising truths about myself than I expected to, booked my first overseas trip, reinvented myself as an individual, cared less about what others think of me, put myself first every now and then, and learned from my (many) mistakes.
Somehow I expected this single-versary to feel like more of a milestone. Having forgotten what it was like to be single, I imagined myself emerging from my lethargic, pudgy, larvae-like domesticated state as a suddenly glorious butterfly, care-free and glittering on vibrant, newly formed wings. Instead I feel more like a moth. I do still flutter about the place on new wings, albeit somewhat clumsily; however, I’m less likely to land regally on a crocus stamen like some delicate goddess, and more likely to blunder along gracelessly, thrashing my ungainly body awkwardly at any objects that lie in my way before dropping, exhausted, on some gritty window sill.
There’s nothing particularly wrong with a moth-like existence; I still get to spread my wings and flit about, I bear a robust strength that the butterfly does not have and possess a subtle, intricate beauty which is admired by those who look closely enough to see it. Sure, my helter-skelter approach to life does mean I crash-land every now and then, but these little brown wings don’t bruise easily and, gosh darn it, I will eventually get to where I’m meant to be. Which, obviously, is in the vicinity of the nearest 40-watt bulb.
Either that or you’ll find me dead behind the TV one day in a pile of dust…but hey, I’m an optimist.