once a month, i swear to god i’m done with writing. i tell myself the old internet is dead and there’s no reviving it. i delete whatever medium i’m desperately clinging to for attention or relevance or the tingle of aspiration i once felt in the presence of a cool, self-possessed internet personality and promise to dedicate my precious time and attention to literally anything else. i’ve been on the internet for two decades — surely, i’ve run out of things to say.

and i was so serious this time. morning pages? out of here. journaling? motherfucker, for what?

i’m not in the business of keeping lovers who don’t want to be kept. so genuflecting at the feet of a fickle muse?

tuh, no. if words wanted to find me, they’d have to catch me outside.

so, there i was, minding my business — plotting my next rebrand because this little life of mine is a series of games and archetypal embodiment is by far my favorite — when pinterest fed me an image that stopped me in my tracks.

i saw this piece and saw myself. the leisure, the self-involvement. the peek through the curtain — her steely gaze over the book — that compels with a dare.

rabbit holes being what they are, i landed in google drive, visiting former versions of myself in my old blog archives.

Women who are down to cuss loud and take shots and date and fuck (when they want, because they want, whom they want, how they want) with no regard for what makes them “worthy” of partnership, because they know life isn’t a paint-by-numbers deal that ends with a hubby, 2.5 kids, and a two-car garage if you just play by the rules.

i wrote this in 2013. aged 30, desperately wondering why my desires didn’t take the familiar shapes of husband, house, and children, i needed an archetype. a vision of the independent woman divorced from ambition or achievement because climbing the career ladder was no more appealing than marriage and babies.

enter: the lady bachelor.

The “Single Lady” these days represents a woman who lays in wait. Whose life has not yet begun because she’s yet to be chosen. You can debate otherwise, but I promise your arguments will fall on the deaf ears of those committed to putting a scarlet “S” on your chest whenever your opinion gets too feisty or you think too highly of yourself or you step outside whatever little behavioral box you’re supposed to fit into (like, ya know, being a “lady” and all).

It’s no wonder that even the chicks who revel in their solitude and independence tend to frown up when slapped with “single.”

But I’ve found a solution. A change in semantics.

The Lady Bachelor.

I don’t know about you, but when I hear the term “bachelor” I immediately think of George Clooney. George who ages gracefully, dabbles in the occasional committed relationship, and just looks like his alone time consists of good Scotch and fine cigars. George doesn’t appear to be waiting for his life to begin. He’s living it right now.

thirty year old me did not foresee clooney saddling himself with twins in his 50s. but god bless female biology, that is not a concern of mine and anyway, beside the point.

what i saw in danielle mckinney’s artwork brought me to my archives which brought me here:

i’ve become exactly who i wanted to be.

the woman who lives in her own world, offering only what she’s willing to give. an eye over the page of her latest read. her back while dancing at a party of one.

and just like that, the shit i talked about writing went right out of the window. i barely stepped one foot away before it called me back and simp that i am, i answered with a smile. my pride never stood a chance.

which brings us back to the title.

i thought i opted out of “will they, won’t they” games. me and my spacious apartment over a perfect strip where the city meets the suburbs, my glasses of medium-bodied spanish reds and feet padding on hardwood floors to the tune of miles davis “blue in green” on vinyl thought we had it all figured out. we would never make fools of ourselves or have our egoic desires for control and containment tossed in our faces by laughing lovers and here we are. slaves to the written word because no matter where you think you’re hiding, love finds a way.

ugh. annoying.