Oftentimes when I come home from school and intermingle with friends and family friends I nearly never know how on earth I’m supposed to dodge that one, lethal bullet:
“So, ya got any boyfriend yet?!”
I’ve usually tried to figure out some witty response or something uncomfortably awkward so that the conversation can be steered towards something more neutral and less embarrassing, like table linens or what kind of air freshener they use (Hopefully, “eau du Febreeze”).
I usually stick to the following replies:
“Eh. I had one once, but he fell off a cliff and died on impact.” (My brother and I both use this one, actually. Thanks, “Happy Gilmore!”)
“I was dating this one guy once, but then I found out he was actually a…she. AWK-WARD!”
“I have many friends that are boys, so kind of you to ask. Wanna play Mario Kart with us?”
But when it really comes down to it, I’m just not as fixated on dating and guys as I was in high school. It’s just not that important to me. I’m not even all that skilled at giving a crap about what certain text-message/facebook replies mean and in what context, looking up the zodiac sign of my ideal mate, or if I chew a certain flavor of gum because the guys in “Seventeen” magazine say it makes a girl “TOTALLY KISSABLE!”.
And that’s not to say it’s due to the fact that I’m in anyway uncomfortable with myself or feel that I’m going to die alone amongst cats and fur-covered muu-muus. Far from it. Even though I oftentimes make jokes about becoming a spinster or a nun, due to the evident tumbleweeds that blow through my love life. Heck, I embrace the fact that when I wake up (and even up to several hours after I wake up) my hair STILL defies all laws of Hair-odynamics.
Really. We need some scientists over here to figure out why on earth I can go to sleep with wet hair and wake up next morning with the closest thing white girls get to Jheri curls.
And besides I really like the way I look when I wake up in the morning. It’s probably my favorite part. And I don’t think “Ew, gross” when I look in the mirror like a sad percentage of girls my age do. I usually do more of “Hey, how you doin’ ”, because who doesn’t like being woken up by an impression of Joey from “Friends”?
And I embrace any form of flatulence. Either caused by me or anyone else. To be honest, I usually give high-fives for either.
So in short, I’m really daggone comfortable with myself. And I’d be totally okay with not dating until I’m thirty. Or whenever, but it really doesn’t need to be now. Actually, I’d love to not date right now. I embrace date nights with myself anyways. Home cooked dinners with myself ( I make a mean grilled cheese and tomato sammich. Why, thanks, self! No problem, self! You’re the sweetest, Mackenzie. I’m so glad I met you, Mackenzie…)
Which isn’t to say I’m some bra-burning feminist screaming to the high heavens about Freud and chauvinism. No. I’m just interested in so many other things that dating is the last thing on my mind. You see, I realized today when I made a mental 1 year plan of my life while talking Chicago-talk with mother dearest.
My rough plan is to take enough classes at Second City so that I can audition to be apart of their conservatory, some acting troupe, or any other acting/writing opportunity that comes my way in some mysteriously magical fashion.
But if it doesn’t, what do I do? Which is where I pretty much realized that no, at that point I wouldn’t pack up my bags and go bee-line it back to school to go a more reliable and clear-cut route.
(Also, if you were wondering. If I ever did go back to school it’d probably be to become a veterinary science major, so that I could become a bear trainer. No lie. That’s the only reason why I’d go get schooled.)
Freedom would taste too much like being able to get a gyro at 3 a.m. when you could only get gyros on old people time (4:30p.m., as in dinner at New College). Yaknowwhatimean?!
Yeah, I’m probably pack up my bags and move to Prague. ‘Cause I can. And I’ve always wanted to go to Prague. And I could teach English and learn Czech and all of my high school linguistic-dork dreams could come true, finally.
So in short, I’m kind of a big old bag of crazy. And I’m not expecting any guy to be able to ready for all this jelly. And that’s fine. ‘Cause I’m my own best friend. Really. I’m moving too fast in way too many different directions all at once for anything that even the most romantic part of me isn’t screaming out in pain. (And if you were wondering, I do have my chick moments and have most definitely planned parts of my wedding. Cake. First Dance. And the groom is wearing a monocle, jacket with coat-tails, and a top hat with a cane. Oh, and a string quartet playing “Don’t Stop Believing” by Journey will play me down the aisle, by the way.)
And I’d much, much rather focus on having an awesome job that I love and will be there for me indefinitely. And anyways, I make daggone good grilled cheese and tomato sandwiches AND I’m good at watching movies without giving away the end…to myself.
And besides, by the time I’m 30 Andy Samberg will be 42 and the fact that we have a 12-year age difference won’t be so weird to society.
I wish I was joking.