Single Yellow Female

So it suddenly hit me last night: I'm turning 27 in a few days.

And I still don't have a boyfriend.

Of course it's not like I've never had a boyfriend.  Okay, technically that's true.  Technically.  I did have some sort of pseudo-boyfriend in fifth grade, but, well -- it's fifth grade.

No relationship before high school should count, especially if by "relationship" we mean little more than exchanging letters and sideward glances.

So then, the future.

I'm 27 -- fucking 27 years old!

I can't even play the young ingenue in rom-coms anymore.  In a few days, I'm officially entering Sarah Jessica Parker-pointless-illogical-romantic-comedies territory.

There will be no turning back.

I know, I know.  For the longest time, I insisted that I wanted no commitment of any kind.  Now that I'm nearing actual old age (I'm now categorized as "late 20s" -- FUUUUUUUUUU), the idea of spending the rest of my life alone in a flat reeking of mothballs and white flower, perhaps surrounded by irate felines , scares the shit out of me.

My friends used to tease me with this poem from the "Book of Songs" (yes, we are ginormous nerds), entitled "Plop Fall the Plums", where the speaker is a choosy young woman who finds her suitors growing less as the years past.

Ahem.

So maybe there's a point to the poem.  After all, it's attributed to Confucius.  I'm Chinese and hardwired to accept his words as truth.  

So maybe it's too late.  I'm reaping the lonely life of a choosy woman.

Better start adopting cats now.