Recently, I matched with a woman who described herself as “emotionally available and ready to merge calendars.” I suggested we meet for a drink, nothing fancy, just a low-lit bar with good exit sightlines.

She countered with an invitation to her apartment for homemade lasagna and a “vulnerability exercise” she’d printed off an Instagram with 100k likes.

I stared at that message the way a cat stares at a vacuum cleaner…you know exactly what’s coming and you know you want no part of it.

I am a hedgehog. Not the cute Sonic version clutching at power rings. The one from Schopenhauer’s little nightmare thought experiment.

The dilemma states that hedgehogs crave warmth so they huddle together, but the closer they get, the more they stab each other with their quills, so they pull away, get cold, repeat the whole stupid cycle until they find a distance that doesn’t cause bleeding.

That’s me. Only I’ve done the math and realized the optimal distance for my mental health is roughly the length of a studio apartment with a deadbolt and a very clear guest policy.

My friends who are still married tell me I’m “guarded,” which is a word people use when you’ve stopped performing emotional backflips for them and strangers.

What they don’t understand is that solitude, real chosen solitude, isn’t a sad little waiting room for coupledom.

I finally know which foods make me gassy without a panel discussion. I watch anime when I want, and nobody sighs at the screen and says, “I guess we’re really doing this.” I travel with a single carry-on and change plans mid-trip because I can.

That level of autonomy is a drug the pharmaceutical industry is actively suppressing.

The dating world insists you advertise yourself as a fixer-upper with “so much love to give.” I’ve got love, sure, but it’s not a Costco bulk item I’m desperate to unload before it expires.

I hand out my love in annoyingly small, specific doses, like those sample ladies at the grocery store. You get one tiny cup of my time and a toothpick, and if you don’t like the flavor, move along, there’s no purchase necessary.

I watch couples on park benches doing this compulsory intimacy performance, heads tilted, sharing a single earbud, and I just think about the earwax.

The hedgehog in me sees two people slowly, lovingly, sticking quills into each other’s auditory canals and calling it romance. I don’t want that.

I want the bench to myself. I’ve got a Substack podcast queued up about the fall of civilizations, and I’m not pausing it to validate someone’s hustle-culture five-year plan.

I’m not cold. I’ve got a weighted blanket, my newsletter group chat that understands silence, and a rotation of hobbies that don’t require a plus-one.

I’ve figured out that warmth doesn’t have to come from another warm body fumbling toward you in the dark. It can come from a space heater and the absolute certainty that no one will speak to you until you’ve finished your coffee.

Who convinced us that mutual bruising was the price for a little heat, and when exactly do we get our security deposit back?

#HedgehogsDilemma #Schopenhauer #MentalHealth #Solo #Single #Divorced #Unlonely #Alone #anime #Solitude #Dating #Love #Flash #Fiction