I’ve been self-diagnosed as what some might call chronic singleness. I’ve gone on more dates than I can count while my relationships have been… scattered? Yeah, we’ll go with scattered. So I have been asked the time-old question “Why are you single?” about as many times as I’ve had a new relationship go to hell in a handbasket. You’ve probably caught on, but I’ll spell it out. I’ve been asked why I’m single for what feels like the better part of 29 years.
Sure, if I was a dude, there’s no way I would have been asked as much—or at all—and that’s infuriating. But this is my reality, and I know I’m not alone in my distaste every time I hear this question accompanied by a look of pity filled with sad eyes and a condescending sneer.