This article originally posted on SingleEdition.com
At 12 years old, I had it all planned out. I would marry at 18, have my first kid at 19, second by 21, live in a house in the suburbs with a dog named Benji, and have bitchen’ hair. I didn’t know who I would marry and make beautiful babies with but I was pretty certain he would closely resemble Jake Ryan from “Sixteen Candles” and drive something sporty. I would be a stay at home mom, write mediocre poetry about life and Corey Haim, and make a kick ass manicotti.
Fast forward 22 years and the only thing I have in common with my childish aspirations is my bitchen’ hair. So, what happened?
To put it simply, life happened. Somewhere along the way, I realized I wasn’t that big a fan of the Porsche 944, I couldn’t make a decent manicotti to save my life, and had I married at the tender age of 18, I more than likely would have become a statistic, not a stay at home mom.
And I’m okay with that.
This is not the part where I tell you how fabulous it is being single. This is already known. This is not the part where I blame all the men in my life for making me fall short of my early goals. That is just an excuse. This is the part where I tell you it’s okay to be single but it’s also okay to get lonely. That despite the freedom and excitement being single affords me, sometimes I wouldn’t mind having someone along for the ride to tell me just how bitchen’ my hair is.
So, I got a cat.
You read that right. I’m one step closer to becoming Crazy Cat Lady. Another couple rescue cats, a few blue highlights and some baby powder/violet discount perfume and I’m set.
Getting my kitty is the closest I’ve come to commitment in almost a decade. If anything, I enjoy her company more than that of 95% of the men I’ve previously encountered. She’s never lied to me or been dishonest. Although, if she had, I wouldn’t have understood it anyway, since I don’t speak Meow. Yet.
And she’s very clean. Bathes constantly. With the exception of her slight fascination with the toilet paper roll and stealing my ice cream, we’ve become wonderful roommates.
I could go on and on, but I’ve got to go. She has informed me that it’s time for bed. If I don’t listen to her, she’ll wake me up at the crack of dawn by trying to bite the mole off my back.
So, until I meet someone who doesn’t snore and likes their women with a little crazy, cuddle time with a feline during Modern Family isn’t too bad. Sure beats having to watch football with Minute Man or Booger Boy.