I have had some fairly rotten luck when it comes to dating. It is difficult and not fun, and it makes me wonder why the divorce rate is so high in America. Marriages failing- that I can comprehend. But what I don’t understand is how all of these people survived dating long enough to actually meet someone they wanted to marry in the first place. The thing is, there is so much fear. Everyone is so scared all the time. We are scared of being hurt, scared of being forgotten, scared of caring too much or not enough, scared of people seeing how scared we are. And that’s on a good day. On a bad day the fear transitions into warp drive, and it makes people do crazy things like walk away from someone they love or cease eating bread because he might love you more if your calves look smaller. Humans, as a general rule, are a stupid, clumsy, nearsighted species who (almost without exception) desperately want to be loved. It’s truly an unfortunate combination.

And everything is made so much harder when there are little ears and watchful eyes; small, precious people whose dials are tuned in to Channel Mom at all times. It’s hard to slog through confusion, dress up and feel sexy, or stumble your way through a heartbreak when your children’s faces mirror even your most secret, hidden emotions. They watch you stumble and fall and curse and cry and then, I imagine, they take all of this information and file it way back in their brains, in the ever-growing section labeled: To Be Brought Up In Therapy. The sucky-lame-awfulness of dating is hard enough to bear on its own, but with these constant witnesses to your failures, witnesses with quick and impressionable minds, the pressure to figure your shit out is incredibly intense. Being raised by a single mother must be a little bit like living on the set of The Bachelorette- only the torsos aren’t quite as chiseled and most of the bachelors don’t actually seem to be very interested. Which is terribly sad, really. Mothers are such wonderful people. We have been changed by our children, for the better in most cases. We are creatures of habit and compassion who will listen to you and kiss your face when you’re sad, and we hardly ever mind if you fart in the shower or leave nose hairs in the sink because we are comfortable being close to bodies that are not ours. We are soft and patient and funny and interesting, and yes, we are also stretched beyond our limits and tired most of the time. But if a mother is putting forth the effort to make space in her busy life and full heart for you, she must think you are pretty damn special. And it’s ok to feel proud about that one, guys.

When I became single, I made the decision never to bring a man into my childrens’ lives unless he showed great promise. So the past couple of years haven’t been as crazy and confusing for my daughters as they have been for me, because I have yet to be involved with someone who shows even a hint of promise (or at least they’ve kept it very well hidden). Anne Lamott wrote, “The world is filled with weak, shitty little men,” so try “not to take it too personally.” But on the same page she also wrote: “[Love is] hardly ever that clear, that black and white. So you get confused and your pride gets hurt, but that’s the risk, that’s the game. And sometimes it’s worth it.” I believe both of those things, in the abundance of shitty little men but that love is also sometimes worth the risk. So out of stubbornness or naivete or something else entirely, I have tried to remain open, even when that hurts. Sometimes this makes me feel very stupid, but most of the time it feels like the right thing to do.

I have received two very helpful pieces of advice that I repeat to myself often. One was from my dear friend Bob, who told me, “You will most likely find only one person who is good enough to keep. That’s why they call it ‘dating’ and not ‘relationshipping.’” The other was from a client, a gorgeous seventy-year-old writer/mother/divorcee who said, “Just do your life. If the right person shows up somewhere along the way, that’s great. But if not, you’ve still had a good life.” This life business is tough stuff, and love complicates things even more. But that’s the game. And it’s the only game we’ve got.

Every few days I take my rugs outside and beat them, channeling my inner wizened, kerchiefed babushka. I was out in my front yard this afternoon, shaking the life out of the rugs and desperately craving a cool, creamy borscht, when a man who works for my internet provider walked up the driveway and started talking to me about upgrades. He asked me what I was currently paying for my TV, internet, and phone, and I explained to him that I don’t have a land line, nor do I watch TV. He was baffled.

“Wow, so… what do you do for entertainment?” he asked me.

“I read,” I told him. “I’m kind of a dork.”

My decision not to have television in my house is a spectacularly controversial one, considering it affects no one but me. People are either impressed, confused, or immediately uncomfortable- worried, perhaps, that I will judge them for this sweetly benign vice. I could never judge someone for watching TV, just as I will never be able to judge my daughters when they inevitably get in trouble for smoking pot in the high school parking lot. I have been there, and I understand the purpose that it serves. Watching television was the main activity I shared with my husband. We were so very different. We loved different things, thought about different things, talked about different things. He was maddeningly cerebral, a former debate team champion, and always interested in playing the devil’s advocate in order to spice up a discussion. I, on the other hand, am passionate to a fault, only able to voice my opinion on an issue once I have been given time to understand how I feel about it. We found it difficult to communicate. But at the end of a long day the one thing we could do together was park ourselves on the couch and watch shows we both enjoyed. It sounds sad, but I think it was one of the things that held us together for so long.

The last two years have been deeply introspective. The amount of mental energy I have put into to trying to understand who I am and where I belong could illuminate a small country. Cutting television out of my life wasn’t something I really thought about, it just sort of… happened. At first I was so overwhelmed by the details of the divorce and by having been flung into the world of single-motherhood, that I barely had the wherewithal to change into pajamas before falling into bed at night, much less decide what I wanted to watch on TV. But after awhile, after emerging a bit from the fog, I realized how different I felt without television. I felt calmer. I felt more aware, more present. My thoughts were so beautifully clear and uninfluenced. I started reading again, something I loved to do but never seemed to have the time for. My mental world expanded- I stopped dreaming about hidden cameras and action scenes and dreamt instead about lovers and families and far away places. Beautiful words began to float around in my mind, and I found ways to use them. I believe that words, along with other forms of art, are one of the few true ways of describing and understanding the world. So, you see, removing television from my home wasn’t a decision that I made. It was the result of becoming more authentically me.

It’s hard sometimes, especially with my clients, to not have that instant topic of surface conversation. (Did you see the last episode of “John and Kate?” I KNOW! Oh my god!) But I find other things to talk about, and the results are usually so wonderful. I have to admit though, I do like the reactions from people when I tell them about it, whether they are good or bad. It’s nice to hear someone tell me they admire my decision, and it’s hilarious to see the expressions on the faces of people who clearly just don’t get it. My favorite so far came from one of the girls I work with:

“Hey Karli, do you ever watch ‘The Hills?’”

“No, I don’t have a TV.”

“Oh my god, you are so depressing.“

It’s troublesome being a night owl. My daughters have been asleep for hours, their sleep-breathing heavy and deep, echoing off the wood floors of the hallway. It’s quiet in the darkness outside. I can feel the neighborhood settling in for the night, my street vacant and somnolent, lined with sleeping cars and darkened windows. Even my house seems deep in slumber; the creaking and cracking of beams brought on by the coolness of evening grow fewer and farther between until the walls around me are still and silent. My cats purr softly as they doze, one on my desk and one at my feet, and my skin has turned pale from the glow of my computer screen, the only light in the room. My brain is achingly, mutinously awake, although my body is leaden and sore from a long day spent on my feet.

There is a moth fluttering across the letters on my keyboard. I brush him from the Q and he disappears before settling again on the P. There is nothing beautiful about the creatures that live in the night. Bright colors and lilting, delicate songs are saved for sunlight-lovers and early risers, all of whom are hushed and burrowed and hidden in invisible backyards until the sunrise calls them out again. I envy them the peace that night brings. I envy them their carefree, cheerful mornings and their witness to the damp innocence of dawn. I share these nighttime hours with ugly things, with blind, snuffling mammals and ne’er-do-wells whose engines scream as they barrel down the highway and with insomniacs kept awake by their secrets. I don’t want to be part of this derelict group. A mother, a lady, a Good Girl should be sleeping now, ready to start tomorrow with a fresh face and a well-rested smile. But though I have trained my body to beg for sleep at ten and stumble out of bed at seven, I know I’ll be unable to think clearly again until this time tomorrow night.

I know I am not alone. There are people like me, I am sure, mirror images of myself hunched in white puddles of computer-light. I wish we could communicate somehow, convince each other that it’s not always the early bird that gets the worm, and make the darkness feel less lonely. Maybe I could start a secret club of nighttime dwellers- we could wear yellow wristbands and when we pass each other on the street we could clink our coffee cups together and nod in recognition and never once mention the bags gathered under heavy-lidded eyes. We could start midnight book clubs and play moonlight Scrabble and as our movement grew we could create entire communities who are never required to rise before eleven in the morning and where our favorite restaurants always stay open all night. Maybe I should buy a transistor radio and make friends with the nocturnal truckers. We could talk about how they miss their families and they could read me all the road signs that they pass and we could discuss the pros and cons of ordering biscuits and gravy at three in the morning.

People who think they are funny try to warn me about thinking too much when it’s dark outside. They say, Watch out! Your head is a dangerous neighborhood where you should never go alone at night. But they don’t understand that I have no choice. There is no one here to talk to and nowhere I am able to go and trying to force myself to sleep when my mind is so awake is like asking Lady Gaga to tone it down a bit. It’s crazy-making, and can’t be done. So instead I let myself think. I drink tea and read lovely things to try to keep my spirits up. I’ll lie in bed and wait for things to settle down up there before I set my alarm and turn out the light. I’ll regret it dreadfully in the morning, but I’ll repeat the process again as soon as night falls. This is when I really miss living with another grown-up. Without someone else here to balance out my pattern, I’m free to fall into a cycle that is most incompatible with the rest of society. I hate it, but I seem unable to change it.

If you’re reading this, wear a yellow wristband for me tomorrow.

I bought a giant white hat. It’s the kind of hat worn by ladies in the movies, during a garden scene with sunglasses, butlers, and mimosas. I wore it to a friend’s birthday party yesterday, and it was perfect. We sat under the trees in his backyard while we ate lunch, and his roommate taught me how to play songs by blowing on blades of grass. It all felt so grown-up.

In the evening, my friend Pamela and I met up with some folks we know and walked down to the lake to watch the fireworks. We spread out on blankets, laughing and talking and being quiet and watching the crowds. There was an old man in a white suit, wearing a straw hat and walking with a wooden cane. I wished I was still wearing my wide and shady hat, but I had left it at home.

They played the national anthem as darkness fell, and everyone stood. The boys we were with removed their baseball caps and held them over their hearts and an angry drunk man screamed as police held him down, cuffed him, and swiftly carried him away. We sat back down as the fireworks began, and my friend Marcus put his arm around my shoulders. I watched the explosions in the sky and I watched the people around me. Everyone was quiet. Everyone was still and sat with faces upturned and eyes fixed to the sky above the water, and with each explosion the colored light reflected off of our skin, thousands of faces turning green and purple and blue.

How could you not love everything in a moment like that?

Work is slow today, which is convenient because I feel terrible. I’m on day three of some sort of awful face congestion, and I could barely sleep last night because laying down in bed made the pressure under my eyes almost unbearable. I feel like something has crawled up into my sinuses and died. When my bloody alarm woke me up this morning all I could think about was how everyone I know was probably still sleeping. They were all snuggled up, I was sure, with someone that they loved, experiencing the sluggish, Sunday morning bliss of not having anywhere to be. The women I know would stay in bed, all warm skin and soft sheets, while the men who love them would eventually pad quietly to the kitchen, start the coffee maker and pop some bread into the toaster. I would be on my way to work, sneezing and gurgling and breathing heroically through my mouth, while all of these couples giggled together in bed, sipping coffee from a shared mug and passing the morning paper back and forth. I will admit to the possibility that this is not a common scenario in the lives of the people I know, but when I am sick and feeling sorry for myself it’s the only thing I can think about. And then I curse them. Damn those couples and their love! And I curse my clients. Damn their selfish cosmetic needs! When I do finally write that book you guys have been badgering me about (Divorce: The Things No One Tells You), this will be the subject of chapter two: No One Is Going To Give A Shit If You’re Sick.

Yesterday (day two of this plague) I was finishing up with my last client of the day, rinsing the little bits of hair out after his haircut. He was tipped back into the shampoo bowl, eyes closed and completely relaxed, as I hovered over him praying to god that the snot I could feel gathering at the corners of my nostrils wouldn’t choose that moment to jump ship and land on this poor man’s face. And then I started to think about the terrible career consequences of accidentally throwing up on his face and I started to quietly panic inside. I sat him up, threw a towel over his head, and told him I would meet him back at my chair in just a few minutes. I can only imagine what he was thinking when I returned from blowing my nose in the back room, eyes red-rimmed and puffy, sniffling uncontrollably. I’m not going to tip well today, I’m sure he thought. I refuse to support this pathetic creature’s self-destructive coke habit.

I met a man yesterday who said that the secret of being a grown-up is realizing that everyone is faking it. Remember when you were a kid, he said, and nothing was a big deal because you knew all the adults in your life would take care of everything? Secretly, none of them knew what they were doing, and they were just hoping you would grow up and move away before you figured that out. I find this thought extremely comforting. I spend quite a bit of energy trying to figure things out, trying to catch up to everyone else who all seem to know what they’re doing. This is exhausting on a normal day, but when I am this sick it’s practically debilitating. I have no energy left over to try to understand things when I am using all of my mental powers to silently sweet talk the snot back up into my head, away from my client’s face. Pretty much all I can handle is faking my way from one confusing situation to the next. Searching and seeking, puzzle-piecing bits of my life together to try and see the bigger picture is proving to be completely useless. A friend of mine had a tiny baby girl recently, and she was telling me this trick she found to get her baby to sleep longer at night, by placing her near a heating pad. Maybe life isn’t meant to be understood and gotten the hang of. Maybe finding those little tricks to make something work isn’t cheating, maybe that’s actually what this is all about.

Or maybe I am just sick and foggy and upset. Who knows, really.