I’ll be the Outcast …

Written by a friend…

Here I am, 28 and single. If you asked me four years ago, I probably would’ve told you I’d be married and living in the suburbs by now, but that is the furthest thing from the case. Being a single guy in your late twenties can best be compared to being LeBron James during his decision to leave Cleveland. You’ve decided you aren’t just going to settle for mediocrity. You want a championship, or in my case, a woman who won’t let herself go in 5 years and make me want to stab myself in the face with a screwdriver every time she opens her mouth. But, everyone hates you and doesn’t understand why you can’t just settle down (or stay in Cleveland). Even your parents are starting to question if you’re a sociopath, or maybe just a closeted homosexual. Yet, you feel like you’re on top of the world, living the dream, making the best decision of your life. I may not have a $100 million contract, but at least one of my coworkers isn’t banging my mom.

Being single comes with many problems. For one, social media has become a sick mix of an IKEA and Gymboree advertisement. But for me, this just fuels the fire of the fight to stay single. The last thing I want is to be that asshole holding up painted blocks with my fiancee and our soon-to-be shared initials. My pep-pep and great pep-pep won two World Wars so we wouldn’t have to embarrass ourselves in such a manner. Then there’s the never ending stream of pictures of your kids. Your kid is hideous, and documenting its every movement on a playground is just annoying. Al Gore didn’t invent the internet so you could prove to us that your husband sucks at pulling out. Of course, there’s always the impromptu surveys of who’s the best wedding planner, or where to get your organic boutique cupcakes made. Guess what, three years ago you were sucking down shots of Goldschlager off some dude’s abs in Daytona Beach, going home with anyone who would buy you a Michelob Ultra. I’m as shocked as you are that you found someone to marry you, but put a lid on it, and I’ll sit around and wait for the impromptu surveys of who knows the best divorce attorney.

The bar scene is where I thrive. I work hard during the week, and like to unwind by getting drunk with my friends and finding a lady for the night. Some may view this as pathetic, and maybe it is, but I enjoy it, so fuck off. First problem is, I now have to scope for a wedding ring. My question to a married woman is, why are you at a bar? Didn’t you get married so you get away from creeps like me? Go home and watch CSI and post pointless Facebook status updates and get the hell out of here. There’s a farmers market that you need to Instagram tomorrow morning, and you don’t want to be hungover for that. You and your other married friends are making it difficult for me to get through to the Match.com rejects I’m here to have hot, casual sex with.

Another obstacle is that with age comes wisdom. A 28-year-old girl has most likely seen it all. My antics and bullshit are obvious to her, and she know I’m just looking for a one night stand. So, she demands things such as dates. If I wanted to waste $300 to get laid, I’d buy a hooker. I don’t want to take you to dinner, listen to your life story, then risk getting diarrhea because I’m too cheap to take you anywhere other than the local dive bar to eat dinner. Let’s just wade through the bullshit, and bang. I last a lot longer when I’m drunk anyway.

One of the biggest obstacles to overcome is finding people to hangout with. Most of my friends are at least dating someone, if not married at this point. I like most of their spouses and am happy for them. But on Friday night, I want their relationships to go up in flames faster than the Hindenburg. “Oh you can come to the dinner party at Susan’s house. We’re all going there tonight.”

Oh ok, I’ll be the outcast that is chugging wine alone in the corner, and then has to sit in the special chair from the basement because I bring the dinner party guest list to an odd number.

Then when 10 o’clock rolls around and the party dies down, I want to go out. And I get the lists of excuses as to why everyone is going to bed earlier than my parents. Meanwhile, my friends’ girlfriends are making mental notes to not allow their boyfriends to hang out with me anymore. So, I then turn to making fringe friends. It’s all the guys you would’ve never hung out with in earlier years, but are now beacons in the storm because god knows they will never have girlfriends. And more importantly, they still think you’re cool.

So, at this point, I still enjoy my single life despite all this bullshit I have to step through every week. Because at the end of the sometimes lonely day, I have to answer to no one. I don’t have to ask permission to do things, every weekend is an adventure, and most importantly, I don’t have to pretend to like anyone’s friends or give a shit about stories of how all your coworkers are awful. One day this lifestyle will get old, and hopefully I’m not too fat and bald to find a wife. If I time it right, I’ll probably be able to catch the first round of divorcees from all the women clogging my Facebook news feed or whatever the next big social network will be in 10 years. You wouldn’t bang me in high school, but now that your husband has left you, I’m not looking too bad, am I? Until then, I’ll keep fighting the good fight.