In a society where it seems everyone begins traveling the path to his or her significant other at the conclusion of middle school, I can’t help but feel defined by my inability to become half of a couple. While my friends are off on dates with the cute guys from their English classes or celebrating anniversaries with their boyfriends of more than a year, I’m sipping a drink at the bar with my (happily) single friends and impatiently waiting my turn to be in a relationship.
I grew up obsessing over the Disney princesses, dreaming of the day when my fairytale would come to life. I always knew I’d have to wait a while. My parents were pretty strict about boys, forbidding any phone calls, un-chaperoned co-ed parties and one-on-one dates until I turned 16. Of course, there were ways around it—AIM, secret trips to the neighborhood pool and the occasional sleepover at a girlfriend’s house that started as a boy-girl party.
However, after many failed elementary and middle school relationships, I became thankful that my parents had the “16 rule” in place. Boys were a species I couldn’t understand, and my crushes over the years made it clear that I wasn’t the girl they wanted to tell people they were dating. My boys of choice constantly left me for someone else, explicitly told me they didn’t like me or, in some cases, told me I wasn’t pretty enough for them. I dealt with the blows as best I could, always holding back my tears until I made it home. I figured I could give it time, and then my good relationship karma would come flowing in when my parents lifted the dating blockade.
But then my 16th birthday came and went, and the boys didn’t come flocking. I wasn’t sure what I was doing wrong. My self-esteem began to plummet as more and more of my friends were going on their first dates and having their first kisses. Our slumber parties became more about discussing actual relationships and less about dreaming up fairytales. Friday night girls’ nights were replaced with date nights, and I was left sitting at home with my puppy and my worn-out Harry Potter DVDs.
Now I’m 21, and not much has changed. I sometimes find myself wishing my parents had extended the “16 rule” to include college dating as well. Since high school, I’ve traded my nights curled up with a blanket and a cup of tea for evenings out at the bar nursing the vodka-based drink I bought myself, but I’m just a single as I’ve ever been. All these years in solitary confinement have pushed me to question my plans of meeting my husband in college, my personality and even my appearance. I’ve even begun replaying every male interaction I’ve had over the past few months (and sometimes years) in my head, though some are admittedly fuzzy, trying to figure out exactly when my love life went down the drain.
I had my first “boyfriend” when I was six years old. His name was Aaron, and he was “dating” my four best friends as well. Our playground flirtations and lunchtime hand-holding sessions lasted from kindergarten until third grade, when he decided he wanted only one girlfriend—and I wasn’t her. In fourth grade there was Clay, who I used to bribe with Sour Patch Kids to be my boyfriend. Finally, his sweet tooth got the best of him, and we “dated” for two weeks without ever actually speaking. He even used his best friend to break up with me (my douchebag radar was faulty even at age 10). In fifth grade it was Jacob, the boy I had been pining over for what felt like a lifetime. We would write each other notes in class and attempt to have secret phone calls after school. While all my friends were having their first kisses during recess, Jacob and I were seeing who could give themselves a hickey on their wrist in the shortest amount of time during math class. I moved the following spring, and that meant leaving Jacob behind. But the next year I met the boy who changed it all—Kyle.
I can’t even begin to describe how my 12-year-old self felt about Kyle. He was a year younger than me, but I didn’t care (that hasn’t changed either—I’m still game for a good-looking younger guy). We flirted endlessly for months, but he refused to break up with his (significantly less adorable) girlfriend for me. Kyle and I would make plans to hang out daily, all behind my parents’ back. The scheming eventually failed, thanks to my younger brother. My illicit activities involving Kyle were exposed, and I was on house arrest for the summer. But I didn’t care, because I was officially his girlfriend. We “dated” for two weeks until he decided my strict parents were too much for him and went behind my back to start dating his ex-girlfriend (and one of my supposed “friends”). I was 13 and emotionally destroyed, and I spent the rest of the summer sobbing my eyes out and wondering why I wasn’t good enough.
[pagebreak]
Since the disastrous relationships of my preteen years, I’ve spent countless hours wondering why I was never good enough. High school was a mess of failed flirtations, ending when my crush of choice found someone he liked better (which has happened to me too many times to count). I spent junior prom with my girlfriends and senior prom lying on my couch watching YouTube videos. I’ve never been asked to a dance or even on a date. My mind was twisted and warped with ideas of self-defeat, depression and loneliness, and those feelings only expanded as everyone around me was experiencing every first that I wasn’t.
I had hoped college would bring new horizons, especially since the end of my senior year of high school brought me my first kiss (courtesy of my best guy friend, who I will love forever). My mom hadn’t really dated in high school, and it was in college that she found the love of her life: my dad. I was praying the same would happen for me. But freshman year came and went and, despite more crushes and a number of makeout sessions that I’d rather not admit to, I was still single and lonely and heartbroken. No matter what I did, no matter how cute I dressed or how much weight I lost, I was never enough to be labeled a girlfriend. Sophomore year passed in the same fashion, and I approached my 21st birthday with a heavy, broken heart and not a single romantic relationship under my belt.
My personal time has been significantly preoccupied with trying to figure out how I became so unlucky in love. I’ve overanalyzed my appearance, personality, intellect and more in the quest to find where I made the wrong turn. Whenever I’m asked if I’m in a relationship and I reply with a no, the immediate response is shock. Every comment of “but you’re so pretty,” “if I was a boy I’d date you” or “I mean really, who wouldn’t want to date you? Any guy would be lucky to have you!” has sliced deep into my skin, continually making my stomach churn with despair. If my friends and family and even people I’m not that close to can say these things, why can’t the male population see it, too?
Then I realized something, a novel idea I wish I had discovered years ago:
I’m not the problem.
Everyone grows at his or her own pace, and it just appears that I’m a late bloomer in the relationship department. I’ve had my fair share of alcohol-induced hook-ups, so I’m by no means a social pariah. I’m a good flirt and I’m fun, and even though it took me 21 years to believe it, I am beautiful.
They say that to earn the love of another you must first love yourself. I can honestly say I don’t hold that to be entirely true, as I’ve grown to love myself and am still single, but loving yourself first is extremely important all the same. You can’t base your happiness off someone else’s approval, and you’ll never be able to find the right guy if you’re searching purely for personal gratification. Changing yourself to get a man does not make for a good relationship. The best relationships come from loving who you are, and having a guy who appreciates the best and worst parts of you.
Maybe I will fall in love with a boy I meet at a frat house, just as my parents did more than 30 years ago, or maybe I won’t. I could meet the man of my dreams tomorrow. It may last, or it might not. But either way, there’s no use in thinking less of myself just because a guy doesn’t feel anything for me. After all, being single doesn’t mean being without. I do have relationships—relationships with my family, my faith and my friends—and the most important relationship I have is with myself, one that is ever evolving.
Do you have a story to share? Submit your story to Her Story