Expiry Cometh

A long time ago, when I was in my late twenties, I met a distant relative from my mother's side of the family. One of the first things she wanted to know about me was whether I was married. I said I wasn't, and then she asked if I at least had a boyfriend. When I smiled and said that I didn't, she gave me a look that got on my nerves. Ah, yes, in this family someone always gets left behind, she said, and appeared to be quite certain that if I hadn't managed to get anyone at that advanced age, I'd never find anyone at all. I think I would have enjoyed stabbing the freshly-sharpened pencil I was holding straight into her heart. I think she died a couple of years ago; I imagined she insulted someone and that person managed to do what I had only relished in my head. But she had been right about my fate after all. Twenty-seven days to go, and all hope that there is such a thing as "someone for everyone" shall be gone on midnight of October the 21st. That is when I turn 36, that point where I will leave behind the final signpost that says "Last Chance" and drive on to wherever my destination is by myself. I envy those of my friends who are certain of meeting someone, even if they're of the same age as me and have not dated since Edsa the First. I envy that they can still believe that the one meant for them will just suddenly drop out of the sky. Good for them. As for myself, the fat lady has finally sung.