Written by an anonymous guest blogger.
The first time I cried about being single was a cold Thursday night the fall of my senior year of college. I was in a house I shared with three roommates, all of whom were out for the evening. I was making pasta in the kitchen. I cried because I couldn’t open the jar of tomato sauce.
I tried really hard to open that jar. I wrapped the lid in a dish towel. I ran it under hot water. Eventually I beat it against the countertop in frustration.
And then I cried.
I cried because in that jar of tomato sauce I saw a lifetime of singleness stretching before me. I was 21 years old and had never had a boyfriend. I’d never made out with a boy. I’d never even kissed one. I would graduate from college in a few months and after that, what were my chances of meeting anyone? Surely, I was doomed to a lifetime of loneliness; a lifetime of having no one to open stubborn tomato sauce jars for me.
Was I being overdramatic? Sure. But in every melodramatic breakdown there is a kernel of truth.