The Modern Plight of the Newly Single Thirtysomething

Seems lately many of my friends are saying goodbye to a partner. Marriages, long-term live-ins, short-term freaks. Most are doing so late in life, sometimes for peace, sometimes to return to school or pursue dreams, but always for freedom from a relationship hollowed by pain and miscommunication. They have given up on trying, on caring. They have given in for the last time and are no longer willing to give.

I am sensitive to this trend because I am currently embroiled in the slowest, most gut-punching, childish, mentally tormenting breakup I have ever experienced. Although none of my friends are tolerating the ridiculousness and despair I have endured, they nonetheless have their reasons and scars. The more I speak with them about their experiences, the more I begin to understand the modern plight of the newly single thirtysomething.

Although breaking up is always difficult, rarely is it the same experience after twenty-seven as it was before. What complicates things more are the millions of invisible strings you have tied between yourself and them, strung throughout your shared possessions, your habits, your friends, and even your memories. This is why a clean break is better; the time and energy needed to untangle each strand will painfully, deftly siphon your faith in humanity clean from your bones.

By the time you reach thirty, you have already lived a few years as the “you” you will retire as. Your habits are set and ideals are in place. But when you are coming out of a long relationship you find yourself back at square one, like a confused teenager. All that has defined you, from your partner to your mortgage, is gone. You stood on a mountain years ago and screamed to the world how you loved this person, perhaps even let them put a ring on you and change your name, and now have to climb back up that mountain, with no help and a hundred people asking you how they are, just to reach the top and scream that you’ve made a mistake, a mistake that cost you years of your life and all of your identity.

It’s almost no wonder why our thirty-and-up dating pool is filled with the bitter and the angry. If you are fresh from a separation, your bitterness and fear will take much longer to clean up than you think. If you have gone most of your thirty years bouncing from love to love, then you are probably doing something wrong and will no doubt be angry from the constant frustration and failure. There will never be a shortage of advice on where to go and what to look for, but facts are facts, and the fact is that you do not want to be the creepy old person or the sexual focus of the creepy old people in the bar. Nobody talks to each other in a library and singles attend church with either their parents or parole officers.

Dating is extremely hard late in the game because you have lost your identity and faith in love, plus you have social handicaps, like children or desperation, preventing you from wandering through the crowd with needed confidence. You are so entrenched in your routine that you are either forced to wear your needs on your sleeve or become someone you are not just to bait interested parties.

I’m not going to bother delving the new “American family” and how our collective societal values have rotted marriage at its core because, well, you already know why and how and what. It’s not hard to see the influences reflected in our media; however it is extremely hard to identify people that are going to be more prone to drama than others.

So far our collective dating experiences have been a quagmire of annoyance, inefficacy, fear and stupidity. Those of us brave enough to swim the troubled seas of the dating pool leave with nothing, unless they popped into an adult store or pharmacy on the way home. And it’s always the same stories: He freaked me out, she seemed more interested in herself than me, he was nice but didn’t have time for me, she has a bad past and took it out on me, etc. Most of us are waiting for that Mayflower-type vehicle to float us to a new land of opportunity and single inhabitants, or a bridge that leads directly to a civilization of normal thirtysomethings we’ve been cut off from for centuries, which may or may not happen, but I’m not holding my breath. That kind of belief requires commitment and I’m fresh out.

I considered writing about my ex and the madness I have lived since February, but the truth is I am afraid to. For the same reason a person in a terrible car wreck doesn’t want to converse about the traumatic accident right away. The details are saddening and ludicrous, which gives way to embarrassment about the whole matter. Worst yet, we have been living together since February and, as of press time, she is finally leaving in four days. For me, these six months could easily be broken into a three-piece pie chart, each piece being two months long, with the labels Trying, Angry, and Done. I no longer bother with what-ifs and simply put my head down and walk ahead. I no longer argue my points or wish she would make better choices, and I have no energy left to be hurt that she has ruined some of my friendships and is dating a (now former) friend.

Perched at the end of the diving board and staring deep into the dating pool, sick with the regret and fear I ate less than a half-hour before. Like they always say: Nobody moves, nobody gets hurt.