In my last post, I extolled the virtues of being 34 and single. Livin' la vida loca, baby! Yeah, well.
COUNTERPOINT: Fuck! I don’t want to end up like Eleanor Rigby!
Being 34 and single is challenging for all of the reasons it is awesome. I have all of the freedom in the world, but few people to share it with. Most of my closest friends are married and have kids. So, my nights are mine, my vacations are mine, but my social reality translates this into a lot of alone time. Yes, I see the irony here... I want to share something that on most days I cherish as mine, all mine.
I could spend the next few paragraphs describing periods of loneliness and isolation, but that would be depressing. Instead, I will offer a few snapshots from the life of a 34-year-old single woman.
I get to go anywhere I want on vacation, bitches, but it probably wouldn’t be a good idea. My ideal travel destination involves a long back-country hike to somewhere remote in the mountains or desert. When hiking alone, one sprained ankle and I’m screwed. Also, as someone who has spent time alone in a tent in backwoods Idaho, I know first-hand that my mind can go to some dark places if allowed. As much as I like my Alison-time, I’ve found there’s a fine line between solitude and paranoid delusions of downtrodden lumberjacks lurking outside my tent.
So, I’ve bought into the idea of REI-sponsored and other guided back-country trips, despite my fear of awkward group dynamics and banal chit chat. Unfortunately, REI hates single people. Not really. But REI charges a “single supplement” of $799 for the Chile trip I want to go on before all glaciers disappear. As a person who supports airlines charging obese people for two seats, I guess I have to accept REI’s argument that my tent takes up the space of a couple. That said, fuck you, single supplement, for making me feel like a burden.
When minimum wage employees feel sorry for me, I wonder if I should be feeling sorry for me. After getting a higher-paying job and a bigger apartment, I decided to invest in a couch. So, I headed to Value City Furniture and found a nice saleswoman to help me out. Here’s our conversation:
Saleswoman: OK, we deliver to your neighborhood on Fridays. We will give you a four hour window for delivery.
Me: Um, I work on during the day, but I work only 10 minutes from home, so call me when the delivery truck is on the way. Cool?
Saleswoman: We don’t do that as a policy. You just have to wait at home.
Me: I just started this job, I can’t do that.
Saleswoman: What about a husband or boyfriend? Can you get him to wait for you?
Me: I’m not married. Not an option. You can’t call me?
Saleswoman (cocks her head in pity): You don’t have anyone who can wait at home for you?
Me (inside voice): No, bitch, but thanks for reminding me.
Me (outside voice): Well, I guess no commission for you. BUH bye.
I love living alone, but what if I fall and can’t get up? In one of the best episodes of the X-Files, a Pomeranian eats the entrails of its deceased owner, an elderly neighbor of Peter Boyle’s character. Dude, I don’t want that to happen to me. But recent events suggest that unless I find me some Golden Girls, I might want to think carefully before getting pets. A couple of months ago, I had a terrible stomach virus. I needed Gatorade in the worst way but could not make it to the corner store. Mortified, I had to Blackberry my former co-workers down the street and beg for their help. Last night, I passed out cold in my kitchen after my blood pressure dropped (weird). I woke up in a cold sweat with my vacuum cleaner across my body. It’s moments like that that make me feel really alone. How much do those Life Alert bracelets cost?
Huh. Writing this “Counterpoint” has made me realize that when I say I want someone with whom to share my life, I am being more pragmatic than romantic. I guess that’s mostly right. I am pretty good at entertaining myself. I don’t feel a primal need to share romantic, campfire-lit evenings with a “soul-mate.” I do wish I had a good travel buddy. Who I could have sex with on occasion.
Really, maybe I just need to advertise on Craigslist for a hot manny who isn't afraid to pitch a tent.
2 comments:
Ok Eleanor Rigby wasn't that bad! Hey if the Beatles wrote a song about you, you'd be set (in many weird ways).
And as the OTHER forever-single woman in your life, I won't be offended that you left ME out of your previous post. Aren't I a highlight?! What about my dog in the least!?
I'm all for the pity party post and the passed-out vacuum story sounds like one for Discovery Health Channel, but go back and read about your elation over no in-laws, diaper changes or forced vacations...you is damn lucky biotch!
And remember you are my emergency contact so if you is pitiful, what am I?
If Sex and the City taught me anything (and it didn't), it's that every woman wants to get married. Even if she feels empowered by singlehood and bottles up that desire, it's still there, waiting to break through the damn at the first sign of cracking.
So how dare you promote this lifestyle as one just as fulfilling (or more so) than that of those who pair up. Maybe you need therapy to tap into your "I want a husband and several babies" goal which will then convince you that those weddings of your husband's co-workers are a perfectly reasonable trade-off.
Ultimately, I feel you'll come around on this, live a life with a sense of family values, and live the American Dream the way it was intended: with a husband.
Sincerely,
Dick Cheney
Post a Comment