Life is good.

Right now I feel like life is great: I get to eat whatever I want, I have sole power over the remote control, and I get to hog the covers at night. My friends keep me busy and I'm always out enjoying some sort of urban adventure. Life is good. My married friends, however, feel the need to set me up because I'm 25, single, and living alone.

Even though I grew up in a privileged area, it was still the south. Girls still swooned over boys at bars that include mechanical bulls. Tight jeans, chewing tobacco, and NASCAR... oh my. The girls I remained friends with from high school married such boys. Two of them married young and had kids young. One of them had the kids, but didn't get married. It's the south; we're the largest contributor to Jerry Springer guests.

I, however, wanted more for myself. Not to say that they aren't happy, but that isn't the life I wanted for me. I don't want to spend my Saturdays at the track, watching the mud races. I want to be Intown, hitting on the cute boy who owns an art gallery. Our choices are just different.

My married friends feel bad for me and have made it their mission to find me a man. I'll get phone calls about a bartender from Longhorn in some hick town. He has a two-year-old, but don't worry, he's not on speaking terms with his ex-fiance.

Oh sweet Jesus.

I kindly turned down the offer, careful not to say anything specific because he is so-and-so's cousin.

Last night, I get another phone call:

"Yeah, I have Billy passing out your photo and trying to get you set up."

"Um, where is he doing this?"

"At work."

I'm running through my mind. Billy is a jack-of-all trades from ballet dancer to computer engineer and I can't remember where he works. "Where is that?" I ask.

"At the auto garage."

I almost dropped the phone. She has a man named Billy passing out my photo at a mechanic shop. I could just imagined men in mustaches and grease stained uniforms with their names embroidered inside the red little ovals, exhaling cigarette smoke between yellow teeth while looking at MY photo. I stifled back a cry.

How do I tell her that this isn't my scene without sounding like I'm looking down on her life?

I lied.

"Well, I just started seeing this other guy, but thanks for the offer!"

The truth is, I don't want to settle. I would rather be alone than be with someone who irritates me. Call it a self-preservation thing-- otherwise I'd be worried about the very real possibility of murder-suicide.