Having been asked this by two seperate men in all seriousness, I decided to address this with a blogpost confronting myself on why I am still single. Perhaps this would a) really solve the mystery, and b) provide me a list of witty answers to the next interrogator.
On Friday night, I went out for a spot of fun as I usually do on the weekends, and met a charismatic Brazillian-Indian with all the hallmarks of a great boyfriend, since he skydives, fences, plays polo, practices reiki and yoga and even meditates – except there wasn’t a soul connection. Deciding to live in the moment, and as a person who loves stories (listening and reiterating – I knew I would have one to tell the next day), I opted in good faith to follow him to his gorgeously decked out house in town when he lured me with the promise of pasta (even though what I really wanted was a prata), transported in no less than a speedy motorbike… and boy do I love a bikeride! The curly roads there were ten times more fun given the fact that I was already lubricated with several drinks!
And so he asked me, “Tell me, Olivia. Why are you still single?”.
“I don’t know… perhaps because I’m very fussy,” I mused.
The following night, a very funny Scotsman asked me the same question. Repeatedly. As if he was not satisfied with my replies. Did he think I was lying? You think he’d be upset with not giving him the answer he desired, imagine MY frustration from not knowing why I seem to constantly left as an afterthought on the shelf!
“So Olivia… why are you single?” He asked.
And I said,”Because men don’t want to commit?” as I thought about a man who’d recently said so to me.
To be exact he said, “It’s not like I can’t commit. I just don’t want to.” Which kind of hurts more the former, when you come to think of it.
“Why are you single?”
“I don’t know,” I replied, as I scoffed down my cheese and egg prata, which is something I’ve been looking forward to since I didn’t get it after Friday night’s session of social intercourse.
“Why are you single?”
“Well there’s not a universal truth to it, is there? I wish there was,” I finally retorted.
Maybe it’s the fact that I’m a klutz and I’m too busy hurting myself – like I did earlier tonight when I slammed the taxi car door on my writing/eating/toothbrushing hand, which is now bruised, by the way- to notice the right man appearing before me.
Perhaps I’m too impatient, as demonstrated in my haste to leave the Brazillian-Indian man’s home after he took too long to make me a vegetarian pasta. I take food promises very seriously and hate to be baited like a chicken only to find out that the only food I’m ever going to get is the one I make for myself in my own home kitchen! Instead he offered me a fabulous massage, which was very nice but it didn’t quite satiate my hunger. As I got up to leave he said to me, “Don’t you get it, I’m trying to seduce you!” Oh I got it alright, but he obviously didn’t get the memo on my hunger pangs even though I served it to his face all night long.
Sidetracking a little here, but men seem to use massages as a subtle sex strategy, and this is nothing new. Being a bit of a massage whore, I usually take up the offer, ever so conscious of their intentions, and secretly feeling smirky because I know they’re not going to get the cookie. Damn! You think I’ll put out over a massage, you really think I’m thaaat cheap?!
Back to the issue at hand…
Or maybe I’m just not quite ready for my soul mate… the universe for more than a decade now, has been dropping me all kinds of prototypes of men to test me time after time, and I’ve failed every which time to decipher the formula to a happy relationship. Maybe the universe thinks I might break this man with my klutzy behaviour.
Or could it be that the universe portal is jammed or inundated by a flood of requests of the same kinds of men I’m after?
How far from the head of the queue am I, I’m wondering?
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