It is true. My chronic singlehood  is a topic that has been trod out ad nauseam. But this anecdote was mentioned in a recent drinking session and I realized it never made it to my florilegium so here it is.

Some years ago I had the pleasure of having lunch with acquaintances whom I haven’t seen in close to a decade. It was generally a pleasant experience catching up with these people. We may not have a lot in common but it amused me to see how much they’ve changed over the years.  My only complaint is that these things almost always evolve into a flagellation. It may not be the case for everyone. But for those of you who have in one way or the other deviated from societal precepts (that is: grow up, graduate, get married, have babies, work your ass off, get rich and die), it is inevitable that your dignity will get the raw end of that whip.

This was no exception.

Among the parties involved was an old friend who incidentally was going through her ‘blushing bride’ phase. And that means that from moment you sit down, the entire conversation for the next three and half hours will revolve around her. And the dress. And the cake. And the invitations. And the bridal doodads. And, of course, the long list of fortuitous events that led her to that one guy who filled her heart with joy. She was relentless.

Let me inject this as a caveat before I give you the wrong idea, I am not anti-marriage. For the most part I try to be a live and let live kind of a person. Whatever floats your boat, do it. While I don’t see myself walking down the aisle, she made it known (in true Stepford fashion) that it made her the most fortunate woman alive. So up to that point, I was genuinely happy for her.

The mirth, of course, lasted only until the 45-minute mark where she had to come up for air and finally acknowledge my presence. The first thing she asked me was whether or not I had a boyfriend. Thinking nothing of it, I answered honestly. “No”, I said. “I’m single.”

Little did I know that those three words would give bride-zilla enough ammunition to unceremoniously slice my head off with, “OH MY GOD! You’re missing half of your life!!”. The last syllable resonated deeply at the back of my head. Her facial contortions resembled that of someone who had just found a maggot-infested corpse. Sheer and utter horror.

Yes. If you’re single and you live alone and you go home to a cat, you couldn’t possibly be anything else other than pathetic. I didn’t tell her about the cat. I was afraid she might get up and fling herself off the side of the building.

After that I said nothing although my left eyebrow went into a 30-degree angle. When that happens, it says enough. Please! By all means, malign my existence in public. Somehow the fact that she knew nothing  did not stop her from becoming an expert on what the other half of my life should consist of. Here’s a thought: write a book about it.  Take a dip into the 11-billion-dollar self-help industry. Seeing as there are a lot of us poor souls out there, you will no doubt find your way to the top of the New York Times Bestseller’s crap shoot. Then you can be rich and famous and the next time we have lunch, there will be more facets of my life you can hurl thinly veiled insults at.

But until that happens, I will go and revel in my freedom.