*Warning, salty language ahead.
No, I’m not available.
No, I’m not interested.
Yes, I’m serious.
The second my relationship status changed, it was as if a flashing beacon in the sky sent off bat signals indicating my openness to unsolicited male attention.
But let me clarify: I’m not signalling anything. I am turning the light off that I didn’t know was on. I don’t want or need a man in any capacity to fill what is perceived as a void, thank you very much.
My focus is on my overwhelming success in every way. My children first, my business second, followed by my home, my friends, and perhaps my unreasonable standards of organization and cleanliness. My focus is not finding another half, because I am already whole.
A man once said to me, “You’re a whole lot of woman.” He was right. I am whole. Too much to fit into a half of anything.
Why does the absence of a partner in my life imply that I’m in need of one? What is this insistence that because I’m single it’s acceptable to hit on me repeatedly when I say I am not interested? And please don’t reassure me that I will find the one; I am the one!
If I wanted a dating profile, I’d create one. My personal profile isn’t that.
I absolutely don’t want your dick pics in my inbox. What the hell is that anyway? And I don’t want to keep being asked out when I’ve already said no.
I don’t want a drink sent over. In fact, I barely drink, so I’m probably going to sip on this one glass of wine all damn night while I enjoy my friends.
A good friend of mine told me to say I’m in a relationship when I am asked out because men tend to respect the idea of another man over the truth, which is that I’m just not interested. She also told me she wears a wedding ring when she travels alone to avoid unwanted advances.
What the actual fuck is that? Why do we live in that world where I have to lie instead of tell the truth? It’s not an attack on your fragile ego; it’s a representation of where I am right now. I am not desperate for your attention. I am disinterested altogether.
When I get dressed up to go out, it does not mean it’s for men to check me out. I validate my own damn self. I look good for me. If I really liked you anyway, you’d get me in my yoga pants or my nightie with my hair in a messy bun and no makeup—because that’s me the majority of the time.
My expectations of a man are high enough that if you’re openly gawking at me, you’re already proving you’re less than what I need, if I needed that, which I don’t. And yes, I know I’m sexy. You don’t need to tell me as I come out of the bathroom. A word of advice: the bathroom pickup attempt is the opposite of a turn on.
I don’t need your text or private message saying I’m sending off “unapproachable vibes” and you find it difficult to ask me out. How about…don’t. You’re feeling that for a reason. Go away.
If you actually have my personal number, that’s because we’re friends or by chance we have a work or friend commonality, and if you’re in the second category, and if you abuse this privilege by sending me questionable shit, it means I’m deleting you. Also how about not texting my work phone? That’s just tacky; there’s a reason you don’t have my personal number.
Also, my need to hire a handyman to fix something around my house does not mean I need a man to fix anything else in my life. I don’t need to be rescued. I saved myself a long time ago. I handle my own shit.
Part of that was calling a handyman because I tried YouTube-repairing this mess and it went horribly wrong. Needing a professional service does not mean I privately require anything else from you, so don’t dare hit on me while you’re in my home on a service call. Inexplicably gross.
Any memes I post about dirty jokes and sexual innuendos means they made me laugh and I have a sick sense of humour—not that I suddenly have become available to talk about your penis size or what a woman wants. I don’t know what other women want. We are all different. Imagine that.
I know what I want, and it’s not a conversation with someone I barely know. A funny meme made me laugh, and I posted it, and I’ll laugh at your penis if you send it to me in a PM.
My kindness is authentic, but my friendliness does not mean I’m looking to hook up. It means I’m friendly. It means you posted something that made me laugh. It means I think your kid is cute. It means I appreciate your hustle. Or it may mean I saw your uneven gate, your sore body, or can tell you’re stressed as hell and can probably use some yoga in your life, which happens to be my profession.
If I really liked you and wanted something from you, no one would know except you and maybe my closest girlfriend, because she’s the only person who needs to know my whereabouts and who-abouts.
If I really liked you, it would be privately and not over social media. If I was really open to your energy, you would know it because I would tell you. And if wanted to just hook up with you, guess what…you’d know that too with words directly from me. No subliminal signs, no mixed messages. I’d tell you in an explicit, probably funny, but very direct way that I wanted you.
I am a grown woman who knows what she wants and how she wants it, and there aren’t many men who even get a second glance—because I don’t care to look up. If I did want it, I would want it from a real man—not a boy playing games. I thrive on transparency, loyalty, and honesty with my connections.
Hey, I love men—strong, burly, and independent ones, in fact. I’m not man-hating here, and I’m not full of myself and I don’t think I’m some special kind of woman whom nobody can match. I am, however, just not in a place where I want to get to know anyone who wants more from me than I have to give.
There are some spectacular men out there—kind ones, sweet ones who don’t send crap out and who do accept when a woman just isn’t into it. I count some incredible men in my tribe as friends who really get me and I get them, and we can send funny, raunchy shit back and forth all day with no intention other than to laugh. But unless you know me on that level, don’t try me.
There are a bunch of women screaming for a date, asking for a relationship, or open for a random hookup. They’ll show you who they are. Go over there.
Yes, I’m a whole lot of woman. A woman who’s not interested, who’s not available, and who may be annoyed at the culture in which I have to write this blog.
Peace out and cheers to all the happy single ladies.