Less (and More!) Than Single

From: 10/6

I hate the well-established idea that single is synonymous with less. Really, single is bad in almost every linguistic and social context. For example, take the “single-serve,” the “single issue” (usually more expensive than buying a subscription), the “single sale” (items discounted for no other reason than their single-ness), and the “single-speed bicycle” (as distinct from the more distinguished nomenclature “fixie”. All of these things are less, even if they are actually higher quality. If all of these things are considered somehow inferior to the bigger, better, multiple versions, why do we persist in the ridiculous ideal of individualism? Of course, things are more contradictory in this country, where nothing seems to make sense when examined in even the most cursory way. In America, we have so much crap and contradiction piled up in our dark corners that we might trigger an avalanche if anyone so much as jiggles the knob of our collective closet. However, this misnomer is not unique to the United States. Most cultures seem to share a disdain of the word single. The Spanish translation is solo, which is actually the same word for lonely, if you can believe it. Those Spanish speakers are just a little more direct, but the sentiment is the same. Basically, being single is bad, whether you are a solo chica or a lonely sweater marked down 25% at Anthroplogie.

I recently purchased a wonderful book, which I have read bits and pieces of in the past and which has long been recommended to me by several of my more confident friends. The book is The Ethical Slut, by Dossie Easton and Janet W. Hardy. The book addresses the question of polyamory, open relationships and “other adventures”, as stated in the subtitle. Although I have yet to finish the book, I have come to the conclusion that those “other adventures” largely consist of the legendary quest to learn to love ourselves. Step one: dismantle the idea that single is less. Single is a state of being, not a temporary holding pen or cell block eight; where you serve due penance for the sin of not being partnered. Likewise, the authors encourage us to see that more than one is also equally blameless. How can single be a sin, yet monogamy a virtue?

Last weekend, I went to see a really incredible movie at Living Room Theaters. The movie was “The Cave of Forgotten Dreams.” After calling no less than seven friends, who all declined my invitation to hang out in favor of spending the evening with their partners, I took myself to this amazing flick. Twelve dollars and one stout beer later, I was comfortably ensconced in the big, cushy chair that makes Living Room so much better than Fox Tower. The problem arose when a porter/waiter (what do you call those guys?) asked me “when my companion was coming.” I looked around me in the small theater and it’s true: I was the only single in the place. The same question, in different words, was repeated again by a couple looking to expand their cuddling into my seating area mid-viewing. And at the end of the evening, once more when another well-meaning porter looked at me with a twinge of pity and asked me “if I wanted to talk about the movie.” Now, aside from some limited hand-holding and those annoying shushers, movies do not seem very social to me. Why is it shameful for a single chica to take herself out on a Saturday night? Am I not simply sitting, like everyone else, staring at screen? Does the presence of one empty chair next to me really make me discount goods?

This is bigger than the question of coupledom. Fuck coupledom. I would love to find someone to love, but in the meantime, I would really appreciate the levity to love, period. To love a movie, to love a walk in the park after dark, to love myself just as I am. Maybe to love one man who fulfills everything I need, or maybe to love more than one, who each fulfill something I need. Again, the contradiction: not single but monogamous. Not single, but definitely individual. How is a woman supposed to breathe in this illogical environment? I should be strong and independent, yet if I get raped while out running my errands at night, I asked for it? I should be monogamous, but if my partner treats me like shit, leaving him is less stigmatized than the inevitable period of single-ness that will follow? For the sake of our collective sanity, can we please just agree that sometimes we want a single-serve ice cream, even if we can afford the double-scoop? And equally, that sometimes we might need three or four smaller scoops in order to taste all the flavors we crave.

On a side note: I received a mysterious phone call today while purchasing my book in Powell’s. It consisted of one whispered sentence: “I love you, ok?” I couldn’t make out the voice and the number was unlisted. I hung up once and they called back again. This time, the voice was ever so slightly less faint: “I love you. Ok.” Then they hung up. To this mysterious caller, I have only one sentence for you, too: Love without courage is no love at all.

It takes courage to love someone, and it takes courage to reject the idea that not loving someone (anyone or one person in particular) makes you a lesser being. But without courage, love is just as empty as the single sale rack at Anthropolgie.