No, not that C-word.
No, we’re here today to talk about the C-word that begins with ‘cel’ and ends with me spending Saturday night in my sweatpants watching a documentary about a sans-serif font.
That’s right: Celibacy. Specifically, the involuntary variety.
For awhile now, I’ve been vaguely aware of my extended singledom, but I didn’t realize how long it had been since I’d kissed someone. Today’s inventory of my wallet reminded me that I’ve been carrying around a condom for a very, very long time without having to replace it. How long, you ask? Well… I did the math, folks, and it’s not pretty.
Next month it will have been TWO YEARS since the last time I made out with anyone.
Kat’s response: “Do not let it get to two years… at that point I will be scared for your health.” My friend Malka’s reaction was simply an awed: “Whoa.”
I realize that it’s irrational to be angry about something that is ostensibly my own choice, but I am kind of angry. Two years is a long fucking time, especially when it’s two years of my prime mid-20s hotness. I have been allowing this unintentional abstinence to slip from weeks into months and from months into years and I didn’t even realize it was happening. I feel like Sleeping Beauty or maybe Rip Van Winkle, awakening from a thousand year slumber to discover that time has been a-wastin’ and it’s not coming back.
I am in Crisis Mode.
Over the past two years, I’ve had a few dates, a handful of lukewarm crushes, and some mild flirtation— but the heavy breathing, the frantic grabbing, the steaming up of the windows? I literally don’t even remember what that feels like. And that, my friends, is a problem.
The weird part is that it hasn’t always been this way. I ain’t no ho, but before my two years of involuntary celibacy, I was getting action aplenty. I had two longish-term Serious Boyfriends and sandwiched between them was a series of everything from random hook-ups to three-week mini-rels (I literally just invented that idiotic term, but feel free to popularize it, New York Times). I met boys at bars, at work, and in the grocery store. Boys liked me and I liked them.
And, dudes, I don’t mean to brag… but I’m kind of awesome? I’m smart and funny, I bathe regularly, and I can rock a pair of heels like no other. I have good taste in music, I have awesome friends, and I bake a mean cupcake. And I have it on good authority that I’m a decent lay.
But in June of 2006, my last boyfriend packed up his 1993 Acura Integra and moved to the Pacific Northwest and something just… switched off. And I have no idea why.
I think it’s safe to say that I’ve been “focused on other things” over the past two years, but there are many people in this world who write songs and move across the country and go to law school and still manage to find the time to smooch.
So, what gives?
The world may never know.
But I’m turning 26 tomorrow and I’m not getting younger after that.