QUIRKYALONENESS…my conversion

I’ve never had a problem with being single. I’ve actually celebrated the fact that I am capable of being alone, that I don’t need a man to occupy my time or as the basis of my happiness.

I‘ve had two long/serious relationships in my lifetime. In between I’ve had a couple of boyfriends and dated a few guys. Some I liked more than others. Some I cried over, others not so much.

But one thing was constant; once I/he/we ended the relationship I never felt the urge to jump right into the next. I instead welcomed singleness (yes, that’s a word) with open arms. But after my last breakup, over a year ago, things felt a little different.

In all fairness, my last relationship wasn’t a bad relationship. On the contrary, it was probably one of the best relationships I’ve been in. But there was something about its abrupt ending and the events that followed that shattered my trust in the heterosexual male species, and left me feeling like I had to find the next guy to quickly rebuild my faith in men. It has been an unsuccessful search.

Up until a few months ago I dwelled in the thought that I may never find the guy and started to reluctantly internalize the idea that if I wanted to share my life with someone I may have lower my expectations or settle for the next best thing (I know it’s a little dramatic but I tend to that sometimes).

So about a month ago, after many lonely nights spent pondering about my loveless future over many glasses of Shiraz, a lot of self reflection, and a little bit of unsubstantiated self pity, I came to terms with my not-so-newfound singlehood (ok, that’s not a word) and became a self-proclaimed quirkyalone… a true conversion.

By definition a quirkyalone is a person who enjoys being single (but is not opposed to being in a relationship) and generally prefers to be alone rather than date for the sake of being in a couple. With unique traits and an optimistic spirit; a quirkyalone possesses a sensibility that transcends relationship status.

Now I am a quirkyalone and proud to be one. It takes some adjusting, but it’s really about acceptance. Instead of romance, I have chosen to focus on my career, my hobbies, my friends, my family and myself, and I am happy to say that I am getting a much greater return on my investment.

* Quirkyalone is a term coined by author Sasha Cagen in her book "Quirkyalone: A Manifesto for Uncomprimising Romantics."

Matchbox 20 Concert

A few days ago my friend surprised me with a last minute invitation to the Matchbox 20 concert. Though I haven’t followed their music since the band reunited, I did own their first album and since then have had semi-crush on Rob Thomas. My friend, on the other hand, is a staunch fan and had gotten pre-sale floor tickets. So, I happily accepted her invitation, and eagerly awaited the day.
A couple of days later we are on our way to the Hard Rock Hotel and Casino to see Matchbox 20. We arrived early so that we could have dinner and catch the opening act: angst queen, Alanis Morisette.
We had dinner at the Bluepoint Ocean Grill. As we waited for our food, we sipped strawberry margaritas, though the drink menu alluded to them being much more than that, and brought each other up to date on our not-so-exciting lives. The food, mine at least, was horrible, so after stuffing myself with fried calamari and rock-hard artisan bread, we were on our way to see Alanis and Rob, or so we thought.
After a quick restroom stop, we left the restaurant. On our way to the concert venue, my friend looked for our tickets; two folded 8 ½ x 11 colorful Ticketmaster printouts, in her small Coach wristlet purse. It did not take us long to figure out we had lost our tickets.
In disbelief, as we quickly made our way back to the restaurant, we re-traced our steps trying to determine where our tickets may have gone. I raced to the restrooms and my friend chased down our waiter, both of us hoping that we were the only Matchbox 20 fans in the eatery.
We stood next to a booth looking in through the kitchen door window, watching our waiter and a couple of busboys rummage through the garbage in search of our concert tickets with no luck.
As disappointment settled in our faces, from across the dining area, a restaurant employee energetically waived two sheets of paper in the air as he walked toward us and loudly joked about how much money he could get for the tickets.
A few moments later, for a second time, we were on our way to the concert, tickets securely in hand.
The concert was nearly sold out. Outside, there were long lines of people waiting to purchase overpriced beer and liquor. Inside there were half-drunk people, impatiently waiting for the concert to start.
After taking our seats my friend and I, both single, took a moment to check out the man-scape. A quick look revealed a testosterone- barren scene, and a few unexpected surprises.
I expected to see a crowd of grungy and trendy 20-somethings and maybe even a few hip 30-somethings. But instead, we were joined by a wide assortment of lesbians; a group of drunk, bleach-blonde cougars; and a couple of sexually frustrated, very loud women.
To my left sat two very nice, tall, blond women. The slimmer of the two wore a fitted plain white t-shirt, faded blue jeans, flip flops, hooded sweat shirt, and she carried a purse. Her friend looked like Meatloaf…the singer. She wore a plaid short sleeve men’s shirt over dark pants and Vans.
Directly behind my friend sat two very loud and drunk women, incessantly and shamelessly talking about men and sex- reminiscent of low budget- writers on strike- scene from Sex and the City.
In front of us, a group of four thin, bleach- blonde cougars all dressed alike, with black tops and blue jeans were taking pictures of themselves with their camera phones and chugging beer like freshman frat boys.
The concert had not started yet, and despite the lack of available/attractive testosterone, we were having a great time watching and listening to everyone around us.
Lights start to dim. People clumsily scurry to their seats in the half-lit concert venue. After a few minutes of darkness, Alanis belts out the first words to her opening song -“Uninvited.” Suddenly, along with the billowing cheers, I notice that we are surrounded by an intemperate crowd of lesbians. And I am not talking about our immediate surroundings- they were everywhere.
The nice couple to my left (the slim blonde and the Meatloaf look-a -like) rocked-out to every song. “Slim” acted out the lyrics as if she was performing in a music video and raised her hands in worship as she sang along. “Meatloaf” is a multi-talented musician. She was great at air guitar. I think she even played the air tambourine at one point, but it was obvious that her first love is percussion; because she was extremely good at the air drums. By the looks and caresses she gave "Slim" I would venture to say she comes in at a close second.
The two drunken women behind us, between mumbled lyrics, dialed a man by the name of Frank, whom one of the women used to date and considers an asshole. But that did not deter her from leaving an explicit voice message professing her sexual desire for him.
In front of us, a group of cougars, apparently enjoying a girls’ night out sat somewhat quietly through Alanis’s performance. But as soon as Rob took the stage they bolted from their seats and took over the wide aisles with what I can only characterize as spastic, Amazonian tribal dances.
Throughout the night my friend and I shared looks of disbelief and sometimes even disgust as we heard and saw the things going on around us. I must clarify; I have nothing against homosexuals, cougars, drunks, or even sexually frustrated women. I simply found the night’s events to be full of stereotypical faux-pas and humor- I just had to share.