The haiku box

There is something to be said for having a boyfriend. It's quite nice to be brought coffee in bed on a regular basis, made perfectly my liking. It is equally pleasant to be told upon waking You look cute when you are so puffy. Artfully created presents given upon no occasion whatsoever? What's not to like there, right?

It's been some 4 months now that I have been single. One third of that time was spent as an emotional wreck, another third spent fluctuating between anxiety and numbness, and the last third, I s'pose, is what concerns us here.

Having once been charged as a serial monogamist, I have to say, it's not so bad being alone (or single as they who make the forms would have us call it). I am getting much more sleep. I don't have to continually explain myself (except to the cop who pulled me over that one time I swear I was driving without a seatbelt). Instead of one person fulfilling all my needs there are now many and they do a much better job of it: the Bachelorette, who simply put gets it and always has an equally humiliating experience to proffer. (Query: What the hell am I going to do when she goes to France next month?) There is the perfect roommate, who does the job by just being around in a soothing and quiet kind of way. And then there is, of course, my new yoga teacher, Katchie, who speaks to me (OK and everyone else in the class) in an authoritative German-Swiss accent, plays the Harmonium at the beginning and end of every class, and does a mean moola-bandha. What more really does a girl need?

The more, well, we are working on it. And when I say working on it, I mean, with a non-threatening, non-goal oriented approach. That is to say, we are swearing off of men entirely.

But we have all the best intentions of getting back to them at an (as yet undisclosed) date. Ahem, no pun intended.