Page 1 of Resisting the Grump

P R O L O G U E

It’s easy to be single when everyone else is. It’s only when friends start coupling up, settling down, and having babies on purpose that you begin to wonder if you’re flawed.

But does my tramp stamp make me defective? Does the fact that I didn’t have to compromise much as an only child make me unlovable? Does my parents’ sickeningly sweet unicorn marriage disqualify me from the ultra-exclusive true love club?

Everyone’s always saying how lucky I am that my folks are still in love after all these years, but I don’t feel particularly lucky. It’s not like they’ve let me in on the big secret to relationship success.

The only advice my mom ever gave me was, “Choose a kind man, Avery. Kindness is underrated.”

So, naturally, I started going for bad boys from that day forward. Because what hormonal teenage girl wouldn’t turn her nose up at that lame advice?

But half a dozen bad boys later, and I’m starting to wonder if her simple suggestion was wiser than I realized. Because treating kindness as a “nice to have” instead of a “need to have” hasn’t worked out very well for me. On the rare occasion I drink enough to face my dating track record, I’m not exactly overwhelmed with gratitude when I reflect on the men I’ve picked so far. Quite the contrary.

Trouble is, I’m as bad as the men I attract. I treat them as a means to an end, am allergic to commitment, and avoid getting attached because I’ve always seen neediness as a liability and a weakness. So while I’m not particularly proud of my past, I can’t say my present situation is a mystery.

That said, I’m growing a bit weary of hooking up with men who are looking for a last hurrah before they settle down with a rosy-cheeked baby maker who covers her eyes at scary movies because of how starkly the horror contrasts with her perfect, wholesome femininity.

How am I supposed to compete with that when I’m the kind of woman who likes scary movies more than rom-coms and pants more than skirts? To be honest, I’m terrified that the kind of guy I “should” be going for is the kind who’d ask me to hide my tramp stamp when his mother’s around, and that’s not going to happen. I look great in a bikini, and in a world where too many women think they don’t, it’s my goddamn duty not to apologize for how I look… even if I regret making such a permanent decision during a period in my life when I thought Bacchus was an exemplary role model.

Whatever.

It could be worse. I could actually believe my tats are the reason I haven’t met the right guy. But they’re not. My appearance has nothing to do with my singledom.

Truth is, I’m alone because I’m good at it.

I’m alone because my taste in men is abominable, and I’m clearly a glutton for punishment.

I’m alone because I’m tired of wasting my time with relationships that never go anywhere when my vibrator has never once argued with me, taken me for granted, or forgotten its wallet.

But most of all, I’m alone because I don’t know how not to be. Even in previous relationships, I’ve never experienced the luxury—even for a moment—of feeling so connected to someone that we became more than the sum of our parts when we were together.

In other words, I’ve never had the kind of boyfriend who, if we found ourselves at the center of a narrowing circle of zombies, would go back to back with me and be ready to kick some ass.

Because that’s all I want. To be treated like an equal. Like a final destination. Like a prize. Instead of like a stepping stone to better, more delicate and predictable people.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not down on kindness. It just doesn’t make my panties wet.

Unfortunately, I’m tired of entertaining relationships where I never graduate to more than a notch on someone’s bedpost. It’s not like I need a sensitive sweetheart who surrenders the covers when I fight for them. I’d rather my sweetheart fought back. Because I’m woman enough to be a man’s equal. I just haven’t met anyone man enough to take me on.

And until I do, I’m hiding my lucky panties away because I’ve finally realized that looking for any excuse to strip down to their skivvies isn’t how the women I respect most have gotten lucky in love.

Far as I can tell, they’ve gotten lucky because they’re patient. They’ve gotten lucky because they didn’t settle. And they’ve gotten lucky because they put kindness on a pedestal.

So it’s no wonder I’m still single.

The only thing I’ve ever put on a pedestal is how quickly a man can make me want to strip down to my lucky panties.

But those days are behind me. Because I am the only child of unicorns, and it’s high time I start acting like it.

O N E

- Avery -

The day after I dropped out of law school, I noticed birdsong again, as if for the first time. I also noticed the warmth of the sun on my face and the sincere kindness in the barista's smile when she handed me my Starbucks. It was wild.

I had no choice but to conclude that the stress I'd been under had been destroying my quality of life and senses. Sometimes I shudder to think how close I was to going through with it. To choosing law. To choosing money. To choosing my career based on such a narrow definition of what it means to be successful.

Granted, dinner parties were easier then. When people ask what you do and discover you're a paralegal in a family law firm, they make all kinds of favorable assumptions about your ambition and intelligence.

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