36-year-old Auckland accountant Rebecca* writes that she’s had a bloody gutsful of being ‘the single one’ in her group. Here’s her plead to her ‘smug married couple’ friends who think her solo existence is entertainment – and for the love of God, don’t ask her to bring out her Bumble!
As told to Kelly Meharg
There’s a moment at every dinner party or Sunday pub session or post-netball gathering – always after the wine’s been poured – when the eyes turn to me.
“So, Becks… what’s happening on the apps?”
And just like that, I become the main act in the evening’s entertainment.
It reminds me of that scene in Bridget Jones where she’s at dinner with the ‘smug married couples’. It starts as a joke. Someone lunges for my phone, insisting we swipe on Bumble “for fun,” as if my romantic life is a glorious sandbox to play in when their own Saturday nights involve Netflix and arguments over who’s unloading the dishwasher.
They shout-laugh at bios, match me with men I explicitly said I wasn’t interested in, and compose flirty messages that are so far from anything I’d actually say, I sometimes wonder if I’ve been replaced by a rom-com character they’re workshopping on my behalf.
Last week, it was 25 minutes of straight swiping as I sat awkwardly across the other side of the table, not able to see the screen but instead the glee on my friends’ faces. There wasn’t enough rosé in the bar for me to drown out the churn in my stomach or the rise of my anxiety.
I laugh along – I always do – because if you don’t, you become The Bitter One. And no one wants to hang out with The Bitter Single Friend. But lately the whole thing is starting to feel less like bonding and more like a performance, like I’m the mid-thirties clown brought in to juggle dating disasters while everyone else swaps baby milestone stories and reno horror tales.
And honestly, sometimes, it really does hurt.
I know they mean well. Most of them. But there’s something deeply condescending about the way they look at me – that blend of fascination, confusion, and just a hint of pity, like I’m both exotic and tragic. “But don’t you get lonely?” one asked to me recently, in the same tone someone might use to ask if I’ve been diagnosed with something terminal.
It’s not just the Bumble invasions or the well-intentioned pity. It’s the everything.
It’s being asked about my dating life like it’s my only storyline. It’s never “How’s work?” or “Are you still doing reformer?” or “What’s bringing you joy lately?” It’s just “Seen anyone lately?” or worse, “Still single?”.
It’s being treated like a time-rich, responsibility-free novelty, with a lot of “You’re lucky. I’d kill for a weekend alone.” Would you? Really? Then stop trying to dump your kids on me every time your partner leaves town. Stop assuming I’ll be free to help you move, dog-sit, or take your child to swimming lessons just because I’m not chasing a toddler around Pak’nSave.
It’s the weddings where I get seated next to the cousin with the questionable political views because I’m the lone plus-zero. The brunches that turn into full-on toddler playdates. The texts that only come through when someone needs a birthday party photographer or wants juicy details about the guy I met on the apps who ghosted me mid-voice note.
It’s the unsolicited advice:
“Maybe you’re too picky.”
“Men are intimidated by successful women, you know”.
“You just have to put yourself out there more.”
For fuck’s saaaaaake, if I haven’t spent the better part of a decade putting myself so far out there, I may as well be wearing a perpetual neon-powered sandwich board.
And don’t even get me started on the biological clock chat. I once had a friend casually suggest over coffee that I should “just freeze your eggs, it’s what everyone’s doing now.” She said it the same way she might suggest I try oat milk.
I’m not against love. I’m not anti-relationship. If I meet someone great, that’s wonderful. But I’m not waiting. I’m not living in some paused version of life while I hold out for a husband. I’m here. I’m building a life that I love. One with wine on weeknights and solo art gallery trips and books in bed and no one else’s washing on the floor.
I own my own little house. I’ve built a career I’m proud of. I go on holidays. I make my own money, my own plans, my own peace. My life is not a Plan B.
And yet, even with all that, even with the joy and richness and bloody freedom, I still feel like the odd one out. The Single One. Expected to show up, crack jokes about dating apps, listen to everyone else’s problems, and never once complain that sometimes, just sometimes, I’d love someone to ask me how I’m really doing.
We never ask such invasive questions about couples. ‘Is the sex still good?’ ‘On a scale of 1-10, how strong do you think your marriage is right now?’
So to all my partnered-up friends, I love you. I really do. But I’m not your pity project. I’m not your entertainment. And I’m not the reminder of your wild youth you keep around for nostalgia’s sake. I’m just a woman in her 30s living a good life.
I’m single, not broken. I’m independent, not incomplete. And I’m done being your freak show.
*name changed to protect anonymity
