Despite the fact I seem to spend most of my life on a date, I do actually rather enjoy being single. Which is lucky because as it happens, perpetual dates aside, I seem to be single rather more than not.
I’m quite an independent gal. So independent that, sometimes, I’ve been misconstrued as cold and distant, which isn’t ideal and definitely not what’s intended. It’s just the way I am, and it’s the way I’ve always been. Frankly, by this point, I doubt I’ll change.
Being single allows me the freedom to do what I like, when I like, without having to think about anyone else (anyone else would probably term that ‘selfishness’, but I’m in PR, so ‘enjoying freedom’ it is).
But that doesn’t mean that sometimes, being on your own isn’t quite a scary thing, and there are times when I think it would be quite nice if there were someone else around.
Weddings, obviously. When I’m struggling to get the Christmas decorations back into the loft, naturally. And, as it turns out, when I’m lying in a hospital bed, having just been informed of the possibility of a faintly terrifying diagnosis.
Because being pretty terrible with needles, blood and – unless they’re Seattle Grace and firmly on the telly – hospitals, at the best of times, the prospect of immediate emergency surgery is a frightening one; and even more so when you’re by yourself.
It’s not that in life in general, there isn’t anyone around. There are the familials (and quite a lot of them when the extended family is counted) and a whole host of excellent friends that I probably wouldn’t be able to shake off if I wanted to. And if push came to shove, there are even a few exes I’m on good enough terms with who, if things got truly dire, would probably be able to help me out of a life-threatening situation.
But those people aren’t necessarily the ones you’d call to hold your hand when your day’s taken an out-of-the-ordinary turn.
Whilst I’d have absolutely no problem calling Best Mate to come and play sidekick, her location in an out of town law firm rather precludes the possibility. If things were really dreadful, I could always call the parents – but again, they’re out in Home County, and much as it amazes me that The Father hasn’t yet been done for speeding, I doubt even he could make it into the centre of town in half an hour.
And even though I’m sure a lot of my darlingest friends would have absolutely no problem either being asked, or dropping whatever it was they were doing, to come and babysit the Blonde (love them. They are a good bunch), I’d feel awkward dragging them out of their days.
Because, despite how long you’ve known them, or how close you might be, somehow it’s not as socially acceptable to call a pal to come and distract you from your wimpiness as it would be a boyfriend.
As it was, there was no emergency surgery, and no need for anyone to hold my hand. Which is just as well. Because I’m still not entirely sure who it would have been.
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