Jackson Free Press

Dating can be a pain in the butt. Dates don't call back. Or they do call back and call too often. Or they have commitment issues. Or they bore your pants off. Or they try to get your pants off on a first date. Or they suck at Pub Quiz. Or they drink cheap wine. Or they kiss like a goldfish.

Dating can also be magical, yet practical. Dates have convertibles. They take you to the Blues Café. They cut your grass. They kill the bug. They smell good. They bring Blackstone Merlot. They fill that spot when you have an office party, charity ball or football tickets. They understand the importance of a good cannonball at the pool. They make a good night kiss stick in your head for days at a time.

Marriage can be a pain in the butt. Husbands leave the seat up. They scratch themselves like no one (being you, of course) is in the room. They make that noise when they eat. They use you as an excuse when they don't want to do something. They work too much. They don't listen. They don't talk. They make you talk like their mothers.

Marriage can be practical, yet magical. Husbands also cut the grass. They change the bulbs on 10-foot ceilings. They pay the bills. They laugh at inside jokes. They know that feeling in your heart when your child smiles for the first time or reads a chapter of a book. They have great big arms to go to when life seems too much. They still dance with you after all these years.

Just a few weeks ago, I had an experience that I then thought would be the perfect time to have a boyfriend or a husband. I had to have outpatient surgery, which required sedation, lots of controlled substances and the worst of all fates to the single chick, a ride home from surgery. They were so insistent about this having-a-driver deal that I had to provide them with a name and number of the person who would offer such a service.

So, I scroll through the contact list on my phone. We have my family, who are all at least three hours away. We have my friends who mostly have husbands and small children. We have my hairdresser, the vet, my dog Zeke's groomer, take-out sushi, casual acquaintances and my ex-husband. Hey! He's not working that week. I give them RC's number.

I admit that this was a desperate moment in my life. That lady needed a name and needed it quickly. She needed commitment, which I'm short on these days. And I've driven RC lots of places in the past, so I'm certain he's willing to do so for me. Hell, he'd do it for someone he just met on the street he's such a good guy.

Ummmmmm, no. Good thing I didn't hold my breath.

So I am forced to do what I don't want to do, but really do want to do, but really don't want to do which is call Cowboy, who is only my friend and nothing more except for I want to kiss him. I ask, is this a moment I really want to share with Cowboy? I'll be drugged and groggy and certainly unattractive after sedation on top of, and I know it's hard to believe, I'm quite a whiner when I don't feel good. But he's a good guy and likewise dependable, so I call.

Well, I don't outright call him. I kind of relay the story to him of how I have no one to take me. I even go so far as to share the rejection RC bestowed upon me, to which Cowboy so delicately reminds me, "He doesn't LIKE you!" See. Guy logic. But Cowboy does remember offering his services when I first mentioned the surgery, and I pretend to balk at the very idea. Then I immediately call girlfriend at the surgeon's office and give her a new name and number.

Being neither husband nor boyfriend, Cowboy was so practical. He took me to surgery and took me home. He left a box of movies. Later, he brought me ice cream and Gatorade. He even ever-so-platonically rubbed my feet, took out the garbage and then he left again. I recovered without falling in the toilet or talking to his mother plus he called back. I can't find a flaw there.

But even more magical than the recovery narcotics were the people in my life I'd overlooked who stepped right up to the single-mom plate: My best queen friends who made me laugh the night before surgery. My best good friend MF who brought me trashy magazines and sugarless ice cream. The marketing manager who offered to buy my groceries. The work environment that allowed me time off to take care of myself. A church full of people who remembered I was having surgery and made sure I was doing just fine. The surgeon who saw me on a Sunday night when I was still in pain. And that guy who cut my grass.

I'll see you a husband and/or boyfriend and raise you my angels because contrary to popular belief, single life is good. Maybe I am so happy that I'm manic, but if I could bottle this feeling I'm sure I'd have to leave Rankin County.

JFP columnist Emily Braden is a free-lance writer and mom who lives in Rankin County with her son Patrick and her dog Zeke.