A) I’m single.
B) I have a cat.
C) A and B have absolutely nothing to do with each other.
Unclear how it started, but there’s this face that people tend to make, consciously or subconsciously, when they find out that I’m single and that I have a cat. It’s a face of concern, fear, and pity masked with a twinge of “that’s cute.” A face that wonders why I’ve chosen a life of feline friends versus dating. I can, in fact, confirm that I’m a lady, I definitely have a cat, and I’d be bored out of my mind if I wasn’t the slightest bit crazy, but I assure you that those facts add up to nothing more than a bubblegum pink flag, at most. No red flags.
I’m single because I find very few gents in this city are worth a second date and even fewer deserve a first. I have a cat because an ex-boyfriend rescued her from his workshop in Brooklyn and I decided she’d be better off in my cozy Manhattan apartment full of throw pillows and excessive shoes than a Williamsburg garage full of handsome hipsters and power tools. I get the whole “crazy cat lady” thing, but that just ain’t me.
Here’s the deal. Cats are the lazy-gal’s pet. I can have a solo dance party, nurse a hangover, go to Baltimore for the weekend, openly weep watching Ladder 49, or stay out until the sun comes up and my cat literally doesn’t care. At all. Don’t get me wrong, we have our instagram-able moments, but we’re two very independent ladies. Minimal responsibility, minimal output, minimal commitment. No strings attached. I give her food, water, and a whole lotta PDA; that’s all she needs.
As an added bonus, she plays fetch. While I’m on the couch exerting as little energy as possible, she’s having the time of her life retrieving whichever object (ball, stuffed animal, silver bangle) I’ve tossed.
If only I could find a man who’s happy with food, water, and likes to bring me stuff…