I was not made for loving you, baby.

I’m 32 years old, and whereas my family and friends by this time have already had two marriages, a kid or two and are high up in their work hierarchy, I’m still unpacking from my previous backpacking trip, going to bed past 3am and living with my dog.

I did have the occasional “sort-of-boyfriend”: the boy I first kissed passed away weeks after we kissed. My high school sweetheart betrayed me with my best friend. Twice. The first guy I moved in with hit me, so I set him to jail and he lost his job. And the most recent “kind-of-serious” relationship I had, dumped me for his ex, when in had moved from a city 3000kms for us to be together.

All my life I thought I was supposed to have a boyfriend. Everybody else seemed to be dating… and I kept just being “miserable”, thinking “I” has something wrong.

I was not made for loving you, baby.

I was made for loving me.

It took me 30 years to figure that out. Since I’ve turned 30, I’ve decided I would never live my life according to another persons life. So I quit dating (and sex, yes) and started living.

I finally had found something that truly fulfils me, and I found a goal. I’m on the build up of the big life-longing experience of an around-the-world trip. And yet, a big part of my friends ad family still insist on raising the big question: what if you meet someone?

I would love to meet someone, eventually. But certainly, not now. Wait till I’m like, 35. At least. Or wait till I’m done travelling. Because for now I was certainly not made for loving you, baby. I was made for loving me!