A reckoning with singledom - Part 1

Birds of a feather, flock together.

Photo by Alain Delorme

Being a voluntarily single woman in your late thirties seems to be a radical act.

Facebook updates from old school friends about their baby, their seven year old, their twelve year old flood your feed. TWELVE! When did these people find the time? They managed to find someone they wanted to procreate with in their twenties? That’s quite a feat.

You didn’t necessarily think you’d be in this singleness vortex. It wasn’t the plan. In your early twenties, all wide-eyed and full of hope, you believed that of course, you’d entertain several suitors until you settled on the right one, who fairytaled-it-up with a traditional marriage proposal. You’d then pop out a couple of kids, all while holding down a wildly successful six figure publishing position (though, preferably, being a critically acclaimed best selling author would suit just fine too). This is all before you’re 30, naturally.

When you rounded out 28, you’d come to the realisation that actually, kids aren’t even really that appealing and just seem like a lot to do, so you cross those off the list. The several suitors you’d expected, well, you’d struggled to find even one. Your love life had really just consisted of multiple bad decisions and time wasters, which even collectively all cobbled together, could never really be classed as a relationship.

The publishing career was non-existent too.

You had begun to reconcile that marriage was probably not on the cards.

You had a three year relationship in your early thirties, the first six months of which were decent and the remainder, a steady decline with lots of lessons about what the exact opposite of your ideal relationship looks like.

At 33, you are unleashed back into society, a single woman. Though with the sourness of the coupledom still tingling on your tongue, you have no desire to wade into the dating pool. This was your time, to reflect, rebuild, focus on you, flourish in your career, get your groove back.

And groove you did.

Now you were certain; no marriage, no kids. This was a good life. If a partner came at some point, so be it, but this right here was a good life. You felt defiant. You had somehow cracked the code. Everyone else might need someone and covet coupledom, but you were just fine all by yourself. Every now and then, you get a little concerned with just how fine you seem to be with it.

You get asked occasionally why you’re single and you never figure out what the correct response to that is. An eye roll? A sassy comeback? A swift punch to the face? Who knows? But you secretly kind of pity the people asking - so wrapped up are they in societal norms that they can’t conceive a life outside of what they’ve been conditioned to think they should have.

More fool them. They don’t know this freedom. And you wear it proudly. You’re bucking the trend. It’s a middle finger to the patriarchy (somehow, you think). You feel you’re flying a flag for the women coming behind you, sounding the alarm that we have more options. We don’t have to be in constant pursuit of this thing. You imagine they find the existence of you, a successful single woman in her late thirties, to be quite inspiring.

But then, when it’s automatically assumed you won’t bring anyone home to your family for Christmas, when it’s never even asked, something about that stings. When people (friends, family, acquaintances) talk about plans for the future and the assumption is that of course you’ll be rocking up to whatever event solo, it makes you prickly. But then, if they’d have said ‘maybe you’ll have met someone by then! *wink wink*’ that would’ve pissed you off too.

Uh oh. What was this?

Looks like there may be an emotional deep dive on the horizon.

To be continued…