And In the End, the Love You Take is Equal to the Love You Make.

I try to keep my blogging about perpetual single-hood to a minimum. This is probably why I will go several weeks without posting anything new.  Because, at the age of 23 (almost 24) the things I think about are:

• Your sister was married at your age.
• Why don't you ever have any money?
• Where is that middle ground between appearing obsessed with him and completely disinterested?
• Is that bill due already?
• Oh. My. Goodness.  That sandwich looks delicious.
• Is Blake Lively as cool in person as she is on TV?
• Oh look, 84% of your graduating class is married.  To each other.
• Yep, your sister was in fact married at your age.

Lately, I have come to the realization that I may just have to settle into this whole single-gal life and accept that some of us are just not meant for those kinds of relationships.  And yes, a big part of me is going through a bit of a mourning period, as is to be expected.  I mean, doesn't every normal girl imagine the perfect man at some point?

In seventh grade my best friend Robyn and I came up with a list of the qualities our dream men would have before we would consider dating them.  Rather than listen to Mr. Kievet explain how to solve for "X", we filled our math notes with "Must be able to make me laugh" and "must understand my love of Nora Ephron movies".  Over time our lists whittled down from hundreds of qualities to 75 to 25, to whatever they are now.  As you get older you realize that it isn't that important for a guy to like Savage Garden, in fact, its preferable that they don't.

I don't come to this conclusion lightly, its more-so after repeated "dates" that left me bored, annoyed, offended, or just hopeless.

Shameful admission: I have never left a date feeling excited for the next one.  Not one.  This is probably why I haven't been on one since October.

I've gone out with guys that lived in my dorm, guys from my study groups, guys from the bank... I've let friends try to introduce me to guys, no dice.  "You're too picky," my sister tells me, "give him another shot."  She is obsessed with the idea of me dating one of her former football players.  I'm sorry dear sister, "Can't be a ginger" is still on my list.

    

I suppose almost every family has an Aunt Spinster.  Someday I will regale my nieces with stories of "When I was your age" at the Christmas gatherings that my siblings have invited me to after my parents have passed on.  I will bring something from around the house that I giftwrapped, like a bowl I decorated at a paint-your-own-pottery store, and I will try to sneak more Boone's Farm into my glass from my purse.

This could be good...

This could be really good.  Perhaps I will run out of my own stories to tell, but Mae and Elli will have plenty to share about me.