How are you still single?

And all the other cliché things I've been asked

“I can’t believe you’ve never had a boyfriend,” a soft-spoken, glasses wearing, self proclaimed book lover who tormented me for a summer pondered as we sat across from each other at a dive bar.

“How are you still single?” a short, mustached, sweaty man asked me on our second date.

“It’s actually so hot,” a Jewish comedian-slash-dog treat maker commented. “That you’ve never been a girlfriend.”

Sharing my perpetual single relationship status with the men I date is nerve wrecking. My mind spirals with what-ifs. What if he thinks it’s weird I’ve never had a boyfriend? What if he finds it unattractive? What if he focuses too much on it? What if he asks me more questions about it? What if, what if, what if.

There is no perfect response to me never having a boyfriend. And really, it’s not something that even should be commented on. It’s simply the story of my life. I can’t go back now and date the shy boy I went to prom with. I can’t go back to college and bend myself to date the egotistic older boy who didn’t like my political beliefs. I can’t go back to the early years of my life in New York City and ask the boy who tortured me for summers to be my boyfriend. And I don’t want to.

But the men I go on dates with almost always have something to say about my boyfriendless past. Maybe it’s how I pose the statement to them. Ending it with a lingering tone, waiting to see if they’ll be turned off by my eternal single status. Maybe it’s the look in my eyes, knowing the hours of Love Island I’ve watched, hearing men in short swim trunks tell each other that a girl never having a boyfriend is a “red flag, mate.” Maybe I leave the door open, give them permission to comment.

But the comments are readily available. The worst one by far is, “How are you still single?”

I was asked that two summers ago on a date in Greenpoint. My hair was long, dark brown, and very curly. It was a humid night and I wore a cropped white t-shirt with a black mini skirt. I knew I looked hot. We grabbed drinks at a retro bar, legs intertwined as we spoke about our lives. He asked me about my past boyfriends and I replied squeamishly, “I don’t have any.” His eyes popped open. “Really,” he exclaimed. I nodded, taking a drink of the watered down margarita sitting in front of me. We began chatting about other things, but I could tell it was still on his mind. Later that night as we sat at an outdoor theater watching Dirty Dancing, he looked at me, one hand wrapped in my hair and the other on my thigh, and said, “How are you still single?”

Because we were watching a movie, I didn’t have to respond. But my mind wandered. How was I supposed to answer that? I didn’t want to walk him down memory lane of failed dates, my lack of really putting myself out there, or explain the one man I got closest to calling my boyfriend. The question was both a compliment and an insult. How was I still single? Me, a boisterous, beautiful girl who he was having fun with. He couldn’t believe no other guy had swooped in and asked me first. How was I still single? Still single, still alone. To him, the marker of failed love.

In that moment, I remember feeling complimented. This probably had more to do with the liquor coursing through my body and the man’s hands on my thighs than the actual words. But I enjoyed the idea of him wondering how a girl as great as me was not tied to another. When I told my friends this line, they repulsed. Reminding me of what I already knew. That my relationship status isn’t a marker of success or failure. That it was a line he was trained to say by years of media embedded into his mind. To him, I was the nerdy girl with the glasses in a high school rom-com. Just waiting for someone to notice me, to take interest, to slowly peel the glasses from my face and reveal a confident, sexy woman ready to be called someone’s girlfriend.

The man who tormented me for six months a few summers ago was the one who couldn’t believe I never had a boyfriend. He was fresh off a breakup and didn’t know how to just have a fling with someone. We met through an app right after I dyed my hair a witchy, black color. We went on several dates, him always wearing a white t-shirt and a baseball hat and carrying an obviously dog eared book to elevate his aura. I was smitten because he treated me like more than just a random girl. But after a summer of late night texts, apologies, and him only showing up when convenient for him, I understood why I never had a boyfriend. Because I let men like him with fragile egos and floppy hair dictate my comings and goings.

Last year, while I sat in a dark bar, dangling my feet from a stool on a date with a curly haired comedian, I asked him about his dating history. Just like the boy with floppy hair, he too was fresh off a breakup. I made a mental note on why I was many men’s rebound, but continued smiling at him as I applied Fenty lip gloss. He kissed me as jazz music echoed from the back room, then returned the question, asking me about my dating history. I explained that while I had never had a boyfriend, I was no recluse. Having lived in the city for five years at that point, I had my fair share of situationships and bad dates. He pulled back, my lip gloss shining on him, and said, “It’s actually so hot that you’ve never been a girlfriend.”

I rolled my eyes. That felt like a line straight out of a bad romance novel. After just a few hours on our first date, I knew I didn’t want to continue seeing this man for many reasons but that line was probably the biggest. We left and made out in the park, then walked to my apartment where we made out some more. I never saw him again, but I remember that line to this day.

I try to be less affected by these remarks now. Now that I know myself more and am more settled in the person I’ve become, I remind myself that who I am is okay, more than okay actually. Believe it or not, I really like myself. I remind myself that because I haven’t had a boyfriend, I’ve been able to really, truly get to know me and love me. I put this new sense of self to the test on a recent date. I once again faced the “I can’t believe you’ve never had a boyfriend” statement. This time, I didn’t cringe or back away. I didn’t find an excuse for it like I would’ve a few years ago or explain away the perceived slight in my history. Instead I explained my hyper-independence, my poor choice in men, and my absolute obsession with my life as it is. To my delight, my date liked my response.

It’s not lost on me that men (in the general sense), do not know what to do with single women. I know the comments, the “how are you still single” questions, are not meant in a harmful way. I really do think the men that have asked me that actually could not believe that I never had a boyfriend. And that I was a normal human existing in this world, untouched by a man calling me his. Even more, it’s also not lost on me that I am an over thinker. That these comments and questions are parts of dates that most do not remember. Only me and my steel trap memory are forced to ponder the intention of said comments over and over again.

But, as I once again explained my dating history, my boyfriendless teens and twenties, as I rattled off stories of situationships and admitted I hadn’t been on a date this year since March, I dreamt of a day where I could just give the name of an ex-boyfriend, explain how long we dated and briefly sum why we broke up. Until then, I will answer these questions, listen to these comments, and be the fantasy of that Jewish comedian with curly hair.

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🍷🍷Frequenting wine bars🍷🍷

A warm summer night in Brooklyn often means sitting at a sceney wine bar gabbing with friends. At least that’s what it’s meant to me over the past few days. The temperatures have gone down a bit, making it not unbearable to sit in the outdoors. On Friday, a few girlfriends and I sat outside at Frog in BedStuy. Packed with relaxed patrons, gravel pavement, wire chairs and a large picnic table, we swapped stories of all that happened over the past few weeks. We were greeted by a playful and fuzzy dog and were stared at by the bar’s cat while we sipped on a delightful chilled red. It was a picturesque way to close out the work week.

On Saturday, after lounging around all day catching up on Emily in Paris, I met my friend Estef for a couple glasses of wine at Rhodora in Fort Greene. Rhodora is probably my favorite wine bar in the city. It’s ever so casual but full of well dressed Brooklynites. The bartenders and wait staff don’t give a single fuck about you, which increases the charm of the place. And it’s shoved into the first floor of a beautiful brownstone. Fort Greene is the prettiest neighborhood in Brooklyn and Rhodora is it’s crown jewel.

🐟🐡Brooklyn Koi Pond🐟🐡

On Friday, after getting a free bottle of wine at Frog, my friends and I stopped by the now infamous Brooklyn Koi Pond - which is neither a pond nor filled with koi. If you have yet to hear about it, let me welcome you to the wonderful world of New York. A few weeks ago, an unknown resident dumped about twenty goldfish into a sidewalk puddle, constantly refreshed by a running fire hydrant. As we approached the street corner, we saw a group of locals sitting on a stoop by the puddle, drinking and listening to music. We said hi and then focused on the fish. They were swimming around, exploring the grassy areas of the puddle, and seemed to me to be loving their life. While some are calling it animal cruelty, I’m calling it another reason I love New York and its oddities. I hope the Brooklyn Koi Pond turns into a national park and stays forever.