Stupid boys?

I am growing increasingly tired of the recent Young Miss movement to deprive ourselves of companionship. Single women and the inappropriately partnered seem to chant the mantra of celebrating independence almost to excess.

"Stay Single" read a recent woman's baby tee at Macy's.

"NO ONE IN HOLLYWOOD STAYS TOGETHER ANYMORE. You should watch out. You'll end up like Locklear, dating David Spade or something."

Oh, and I love me some advice that involves making out with as many men as Resusci-Annie. You know, Beach-Week-at-Dewey style. UGH.

Is that what this is all about?

Let's get out of the way the religious imperatives that dictate that one’s destiny is to secure a mate. How else would a woman procreate and live in the light of God's love? Don't attempt resistance; we see it on Animal Planet every damn day. A mister sloth + a lady sloth = carrying on the bloodline as a good l'il sloth should.

Your record should screetch to a halt here.

I'm not talking about a diety-bestowed responsibility to Mother Earth. I am talking about a human appreciation for - not dependence on - companionship, intimacy, love, laughter, respect, challenge, (more laughter) and joy.

That steadfast rule of staying single has begun to smack as the chant of those embittered, left behind by a lover who chose another via Match.com or a drunken Arlington ladies night. And as my world-view glasses steadily defog, that call to remain single looks more and more to me to be utter crap nay, let's just call it bullshit. I understand the call to independence. I've told you before that I am finally wrapping my old-dog mind around spaces in togetherness. Not being defined by the label of "girlfriend" is just as freeing as it is not to be a slave to your workplace title or your graduate school grades or your Blogger stats.

You've been there in some form? Thought so.

But I have friends who are scorned, some divorced, some who have never known love. Some desire just what I do, while others simply want to cower while the world passes by. Is it fear alone that dictates our responses?

And, damnit, is there anything wrong with feeling complete when I am a partner in a fulfilling relationship? I love to feel needed by a man who loves me. I love to share kisses and family drama and my shoulder dimples and - yes, pizza while watching football - with someone who I respect and cherish. This is hardly a weakness.

ADMIT IT! Life is sweeter when that someone knows that you prefer the fountain soda to the regular old can. Your days are richer when you laugh at insecurities with the same person who unlocks your car door. The one who has created at least three nicknames for you. The one who listens. Who takes a walk to work it off in his head, but who always returns. And loves you. UNCONDITIONALLY.

My recent sadness has done nothing to dampen this feeling. What if I had given up swimming even one of the first three times I swallowed my weight in water? There would be no joy in learning to glide on freestyle, no laughter in my follies at breast stroke. Had I not persisted in an uncertain relationship with my mother, we would never have shared an emotional evening together only four weeks ago that I will remember until I die. If I had given up trying to stand on my own legs on travel - when I completely depended on the pharmaceutical/aviation hospitality industries for my fixes - I would never have known the strength of my own coping.

Friends, I am a researcher, a daughter, a friend, a supporter, an analyst and a shopping and cyborg phobe. I am a true crime geek, a psychobabbler, a swimmer, a writer, a softball player, a comedienne, a drinker and a woman who so sadly missed out on House until the last two months.

Is it anti-young woman for this woman to want to share her neuroses and Chardonnay with someone? Is it faux-this-Sex-in-the-City persona which thirtysomethings perpetuate (and to which twentysomethings seem to strive) to long for a partner with whom to walk hand in hand through this world?

If it is, well, so be it.