The Nouveau Spinster @thenouveauspinster - Tumblr Blog

Wasp in Glass

A wasp flings his body against the window. Again. Again. He buzzes loudly. His effort is so fruitless, but I understand why. It doesn’t make sense to him: there is nothing visibly in his way. He should be able to move through the invisible force field of clear glass. He thinks, “If I try just one more time…one more…Okay, last time…just one more time.”It is so evident to me, watching him throw his small body against the expanse of glass, that if he just stopped, and retraced his path, he would get to where he wanted to go.

It’s counterintuitive, to go backward. We’re supposed to move forward. What does the wasp risk to lose by going backward? Time, probably important in his relative short life. Energy, also important to sustaining that short life span.

What the wasp can’t see is how he is losing both of those things by forging fruitlessly onward. By refusing to go backwards, he will get nowhere.

I say again and again “Maybe it will work this way,” not acknowledging the wall of glass in front of me that I will never penetrate. I throw myself against it, putting all my weight against one shoulder, then the other, now a foot, and finally, my head, but to no avail.

What do I lose by going backwards and starting at the beginning? Time. Energy. Possibly money. But like the wasp, I have already lost those things in my stubborn effort to not alter my route.

Give up. Go backwards. Go back to the beginning.

New Year, New You

Well, hello there.

I know, it’s been so long. What have y’all been up to?

In addition to incorporating certain Southernisms into my vernacular, I have started working (days), and when I’m not working I’m writing (mornings) or spending quality time in Gustav (evenings). In short, I have been settling in.

When I moved here seven months ago, I broke down all of my moving boxes and stored them underneath my bed. I didn’t know that I wasn’t going to be needing them again in 12 months. I had every intention of making this stick, but I knew better than to count on it. I survive by thinking about the next place. If I keep moving, I won’t get bored, or attached, or disappointed.

Two months in, my summer work had ended and I was facing a jobless autumn. I wasn’t making enough with baking to live on. I’d had some really great writing-related stuff happen, but in its wake I was paralyzed, and for the whole month of September I couldn’t write a word.

I was a total fraud. The guts people credited me with for leaving school, moving somewhere I didn’t know anyone, baking for cash, and then for publicly baring my soul wasn’t guts but instead a string of random decisions that weren’t adding up to much. Where had it got me? I was jobless. I couldn’t be living in a more remote location, not only far from my friends and family but also from a population. I couldn’t write more than a grocery list, and since I was so broke, those didn’t even require that much effort.

I started thinking about alternatives, and that I might be pulling those boxes out sooner than I had anticipated. But, I reminded myself that I ended up here because I had already run through my alternatives. This was it.

During the transition from summer to fall I became enamoured with the idea of being here to see the mountains change each season, year after year. I didn’t want to move again, to start over, again. I wanted to stay.

Realizing I wanted to stay made me see that I was hardly out of alternatives; I just needed to make some concessions. I needed to concede on commuting to Asheville for work. I needed to stop resisting the idea of working retail. What did it matter what I was doing as long as it enabled me to be where I wanted? When I told friends here I was going to work holiday retail at the mall, I wryly added, “Because God helps those...”

Then, something magical happened. If I hadn’t been willing to take that mall job, I wouldn’t have told some friends about it, and they wouldn’t have made the connection that I was right for a position they were looking to fill locally. So, I haven’t spent the last three months driving an hour each way to fold sweaters. (Not. One. Sweater.) All of that was great news to begin with, so the fact that what I did end up doing turned out to be better in even more ways is pretty magical. I am thrilled that if I want to stay, I can. Even more thrilling is that I want to stay.

I fully expect that in a year I will be in a totally different place than I am now, but those boxes will be right where they are, untouched.

Happy New Year, y’all.

(Pictured: hiker underdressed for wind chill in the teens, New Year’s Day, 2016.)

No Photos, Please.

There’s a spot on the drive coming back from where I hike that is the most picturesque. It is a field at the bottom of a small hill, and there’s an old barn with a silo nestled at its base. There’s a bend in the road and then boom, there it is. The mountains loom in the background, and it is quintessentially bucolic.

Whenever I drive by it I always think that I should stop and take a picture. But there’s only a tiny turnout, and each time I remember it is there I’ve already driven by it, too late to stop or turn around.

Once in South America I wandered away from my campsite to check out what was nearby. It was still morning, and I carried my tea with me for the stroll. It was chilly, and although the sun was out it frequently disappeared behind the moving clouds. During my little hike I realized I’d left my camera in my tent. I hesitated, and considered going back for it. I don’t need to document every moment, I told myself.

But when I happened unexpectedly upon the glacier, I regretted not having my camera. I was too lazy to walk back to camp, and I figured the scene would probably have changed by the time I returned. The moment would have passed. Plus, the sky had gone cloudless so I settled on a big rock, warming myself in the rare sunlight, and watched the glacier.

Had I documented that day, I don’t think I would remember it as clearly as I do now. I can’t actually tell you what it looked liked, just that there was a glacier very close, and water, and probably some peaks in the distance, and that the scene wasn’t anything I had yet seen. I comforted myself for not having my camera by not being distracted with capturing the perfect shot of what was in front of me. The mild regret for not having my camera is what makes the moment so memorable.

When I drove by my favorite spot the other day, I had been looking forward to seeing it with the trees in their autumnal glory. But, it did not meet my expectation. Many of the leaves are already gone and several of the trees bordering the old barn are bare. I like this scene better in the summer.

My photos rarely capture the object the way I see it in front of me. The depth is lost, and it is a flimsy reproduction of what I saw. It is more enjoyable to accept the ephemeral moment as is, rather than capture it for posterity.

I have a hard time not measuring life in terms of success and failure. But, rather than looking forward to future successes or failures, or dwelling on those of the past, letting moments come and then go means not holding on so tightly. Successes, then, are momentary (aren’t they anyway?), but so too are the failures. Instead of carrying them around with me like a photo in my wallet, this way I can drive by them, and take them for what they are: a good moment, or a bad one, but only a moment.

No Love?

“I went to the woods to live deliberately…” -- H.D. Thoreau

In college, my friends and I would eagerly check our phone messages whenever we arrived back from class or dinner. If there were no messages from the outside world, we’d sigh “No love,” before freeing up the phone so someone else could check her messages.

The other night, before closing up my laptop and tucking into my book, I did my final sweep: Facebook. Instagram. Twitter. Email. That evening, I had no more likes, no favorites or retweets, and no new emails than I had the last time I’d checked. “No love,” I sighed.

“You didn’t post anything in the last twelve hours,” I reminded myself. “That’s why you don’t have new love.” You get what you give, it would seem.

Would Thoreau have posted updates to his Facebook account as he wrote Walden? Would Muir have Instagrammed the Redwoods whenever he managed to get a signal? Would Audubon have tweeted about the birds he was documenting? (Ha ha, get it?) Would they, if they could have?

I too went to the woods to live deliberately, so that, like Thoreau, I would not, at the end of my life, “discover I had not lived.”

But, can I be with myself, without the Internet, in my house, for a whole day? What if instead of giving in to those easy distractions, I put that energy somewhere else? What would that investment yield?

I believe we all have behaviors we use to distract us from ourselves: raise your hand if you’ve ever eaten your feelings? Used sex to avoid feeling lonely? Let work be an excuse to put off a difficult situation at home? If we took all those distractions away, we’d have no choice but to deal with ourselves.

So what am I avoiding? I’ve been having some serious motivation issues lately. Motivation issues are not a good thing to have when you’re unemployed. I could blame the weather (it’s been raining here for over a week), or the change in seasons. And, I’m tired. I’m tired of all this starting over business. It feels like I’ve been doing it for years (I have, in fact, been doing it for years.) But I know more than any of these things, it’s the paralyzing fear of failure. So, rather than send that pitch I’ve been agonizing over, or call that cafe about that catering job, I look for the immediate gratification from a few “likes” on my last witty Facebook post. I can easily translate this into “You’re not a failure.” (If it’s on the Internet, it must be true.) I know that I am avoiding all of those things now by writing this post, this post that will be an invitation to receive Internet love.

Thoreau also wrote: “I never found the companion that was so companionable as solitude.” But, in solitude, you only have yourself for company. I’ll let you know what I think of me next week.

Pre-Facebook post by Thoreau, at the site of his former cabin on Walden Pond.

The Nature of This Pain

“The prevention of many suicides will continue to be hindered until there is a general awareness of the nature of this pain.” -- William Stryon, Darkness Visible

This month is Suicide Prevention Month, and the timing seems appropriate since this is the time of year when people start to experience the more-than-just-winter-doldurms as the light changes and darkness is a very real thing.

When someone dies by suicide, there’s always an imploring on social media and in the news for people to “ask for help.” Suicide isn’t the answer, they say. There’s help, they assure the more than 15 million people (aged over 18) suffering from depression in the US.

But, anyone familiar with depression knows that asking for help is the hardest thing. We don’t deserve help. There are people worse off than we are. I can barely get out of bed, and you want me to track down a therapist and talk about how worthless I feel right now? No thanks.

Depression is, for lack of a better phrase, a total mind-fuck. You’re not seeing anything clearly. It renders everything good in life impotent. On some intellectual level you know you have people who care about you; you may have a lot to be thankful for: health, job, home, etc; you may have family who really need and depend on you. But none of it matters. The enjoyment that can be found in the smallest things – a walk in the woods, laughter, a hug – is meaningless. We try to summon up the last time we felt happy and that memory feels like it belongs to someone else, like it never happened to you.

Instead of telling depressed people to reach out and ask for help, I repeatedly saw a reversal of that language surrounding suicide prevention this month. It encouraged others to reach out to those who looked like they may be in need.

If you don’t know what to say to someone you suspect is struggling with depression, a good place to start is “I’m worried. I want to help. How can I help?” Letting someone know that you recognize they’re going through something helps. You might be uncomfortable; you might not know how to respond to some of the things they tell you. But you care, so you’ll listen. Here are some suggestions to help them get help:

http://www.mayoclinic.org/diseases-conditions/depression/in-depth/depression/art-20045943

Some friends of mine fundraised for the Out of the Darkness walk this weekend in San Francisco, and if I’d had my shit together, I’d have posted this in time for you to donate to their fundraising. But I didn’t, so here’s a link to donate to the foundation:

https://afsp.donordrive.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=donate.general

If you need to talk to someone, and don’t know where to start, call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. 1 (800) 273-8255

Cave in the Evening, Joseph Wright of Derby, 1774

New Kid on the Block

“…life is too short to spend it in breaking in new people.” -- Edith Wharton, The House of Mirth

Growing up, I was the new kid in school about every three years. I continued this trend into college and adulthood, offsetting any semblance of roots from my long-term stays in San Francisco and New York by pulling up stakes once I hit the 12-month mark for the past three years.

When my family lived abroad, we entered into a ready-made community of ex-pats from everywhere, and where everyone – kids and adults - knew what it was like to be the new kid. The community immediately opened up and no one ever ate lunch alone.

But this kind of welcome wagon is rare. Often it requires a little bit more persistent prodding on my part. Trust me: you want to be my friend, I telepathically tell a potential new friend while I can see them debate if they have time for a new person in their life amid their spouse, kids, and existing friendships. (If you’re my friend reading this, and you’re wondering? Yes, we’re friends because of my telepathy.)

But here, here is different. When I tell people I just moved here, their eyes light up. “Where from? Where are you living? Oh, you’re the baker!” they say. I walk away from the briefest exchanges with new phone numbers, promises to stop by my booth at the market, and local recommendations. It’s like having a whole table of people wave me over to them in the school lunchroom.

That Edith Wharton quote has always stuck with me because it’s a sentiment I often share, especially when I am the new kid. I’ve been on new blocks often enough to read new people pretty well. But lately, I’m happily putting it on sabbatical, and glad those around me have too.

Daily hike, this time with new friends. Not pictured, but not imaginary. I swear.

Dancing with Myself

One of the many things that I love about where I live now is the unapologetic solitude in which I get to luxuriate. My idea of getting out of the house is heading to my totally awesome deck for a few hours, or taking a hike. But also part of this is communicating all day, every day, via text and email with friends who live all over the country, so I really never get lonely.

Except for last week. Last week, something really great happened. Maybe you saw? If you missed my hopefully not too obnoxious eight million Facebook posts, tweets, and texts about it, here’s a link, you know, just in case.

As I made my plan to drive out to Asheville to pick up a hard copy of the paper Sunday, I realized I was going to celebrating by myself. This, I recognize, is all my own doing. I recently moved to a new state where I’ve only known people for five minutes.

But, I wanted to share the occasion with those people who made it possible for me to write that essay in the first place; who send encouraging words when I get rejections; who read all of my first drafts and tell me to keep writing; who checked in with me in those first strange days of not drinking. But they live in California, New York, Boston, and everywhere in between. So instead, I did a lot of happy dances by myself, which was fun, but it would have been more fun with friends.

That admittedly absurd pity party about being all alone in the woods made me realize it’s time to get off my deck. Being so very comfortable alone can make it easy to forget how wonderful the company of others is. And, as the days grow shorter and the darkness creeps in earlier each evening, there’s a danger in being so at ease with solitude.

Still, this weekend served as an excellent reminder of how lucky I am to have those people, even when I’m far from them. I am grateful for them all.

Daily hike, Pisgah National Forest. Next time, maybe I’ll ask someone to come with me.

The Single Smugs

Bridget Jones popularized the smug marrieds, but I find that I suffer from the opposite affliction: I call them the single smugs. Someone getting a divorce? Whew, at least I don’t have to go through that kind of upheaval. Can't believe how tired you are from having kids? Excuse me while I sleep in on Saturday, then wake up to enjoy a cup of coffee while I leisurely read a novel, on my deck, with no other human to interrupt my solitude. Every divorce is a bullet I dodged, every child a trip abroad I got to take instead.

It happens when I'm at dinner in a restaurant and I observe a couple eating their meal in silence, each staring over the other’s shoulder, attempts at conversation met only with short yes or no responses. It happens when I'm on a beach in Italy and I overhear the couple in the chairs next me to sniping at each other. It happens when tragedy strikes - unfairly, as it always does - and I remind myself that having no one means I also have no one to lose.

It’s become an overcorrection, I think, to the smug marrieds. It’s also an overcorrection to the internal whining I often do about being single and is an attempt to drown out the self-pity that I hear in my own head daily.

Although I keep the smugs to myself, it’s gotten pretty obnoxious, I’ll admit. What once was a personal pep talk has now become an unyielding stance on independence that verges on the judgmental. It makes me no better than those who unfairly pass judgment, however quietly and to themselves, on those who are unattached.

I like to think of myself as someone who cares little about what others think, but I’m lying if I say that is true. In actuality, I care a great deal. It may be impossible to banish altogether, but I can surely make more of an effort not to contribute to those silent judgments swirling among us.

So, next time I have a moment of single smuggery, I’ll remind myself we are all just doing the best we can, single, married, or otherwise.

Friend of the Family

Last week, I was in Disney World on a nanny gig with some folks I met last year when I was living in California. We all hit it off and if they didn’t live in Indiana where it snows I would totally just move there and work for them. They asked me to help out while they attended a conference, which they were combining into a family vacation, because: Disney World.

With a three-year-old and two older girls ages nine and eleven, trips to and from the parks, parents spending time at the conference, and the ungodly heat of central Florida in August, it was a busy week. The older girls are in full on pre-teen mode, and there was so much eye rolling I’m surprised their eyes haven’t gotten stuck in the back of their heads. But, there was a fair amount of eye rolling among us adults too, and we had camaraderie amid our shared tolerance of all things Disney throughout the week. The mom, Julia, and I snatched conversations here and there about our lives and what we’ve been reading, the girls and I managed to have some pretty decent pillow fights in between all that eye rolling, and I spent my days totally falling in love with their sweet and delightful three-year-old. (Their father, Ed, admirably tolerated being the only man among many women, and made more than one solo visit to the parks with the girls.)

They left early Monday morning, and I stayed behind to catch my later flight. After we said good-bye, the hotel room was so...quiet. There was no constant commentary from the girls, no sounds from the three-year-old expressing her pleasure or displeasure at something, no laughter from Julia and Ed as they good-naturedly teased each other. I looked around the empty rooms and wiped away a few tears. I missed them already.

Just like during visits to my friend Denise and her family, I enjoy these changes of pace. I enjoy the noise, the physical exhaustion, the testing of patience. I like trying to make life a little easier for the parents; I like being the fun new playmate for the kids. I know that in a few days time I’ll be back to my regularly scheduled life, exchanging squealing babies and eye rolling ‘tweens for my deck, my Gustav, and the ups and downs of my own life.

Last week Julia was making some encouraging cases for me to have kids on my own. I told her the reason there was no way I was doing it myself is because I’ve worked with kids enough to know. Parenthood is not for the faint of heart. (Plus, all that eye rolling!)

After I arrived home, I got a text from Denise telling me that she and her husband created a Netflix profile for me. She assured me it wasn’t to keep my questionable taste in movies separate from them. It was, she wrote, “a way to make you feel like a part of the family.”

It is, I’ve decided, not a bad alternative.

This is what of millions of people not letting a little rain get in the way of their magical experience looks like.

Going for Broke

“The magic – if there is any – lies in what is done with money, not in the money itself.” The Boatmaker, John Benditt

If you want to know where my self-esteem is on any given day, take a peek at my checking account. When it is low, I’m a loser who makes poor life choices and what did I expect? When it is not low (for it will never be bursting), I pat myself on the back for making the decisions that are right for me, naysayers be damned.

This week, the phrase going for broke runs in a loop in my head. (Actually, broke runs in a loop; I add the other part). It reminds me that I’m doing this for a reason, that I did my due diligence, and it was all a calculated risk.

The plan is this: continue to freelance while I build up my baking business at the farmer’s market here. I got approved for the market last month and was ready to hit the ground running as soon as I arrived.

Except, my oven doesn’t work.

When putting it all on the line, when going for broke, there’s not a lot of room for error. (Would it be considered “putting it all on the line” otherwise?) Start up costs require plunking it down and having faith I’m going to get it back sooner rather than later. A set-back like a broken oven is not minor: it is major.

But, it is not a sign that this is a mistake, despite what the little devils of doubt in my head may be muttering. It is a test, yes, of how committed I am to this life I set out to create, made up of the things I want to do in the place I want to do them. A test of how able I am to recognize that no matter how carefully I plan, there will be hiccups: to expect the unexpected. Will I pack up and move into the yurt in my sister’s backyard, because of this one hiccup? Or will I figure it out, and do whatever it takes to get my ass and my baguettes to the market at 8:30 am this Saturday?

It is not hard to think about the myriad of ways this could fail, and how quickly it could do so. Much harder is to think this could be a success, and that I totally know what I’m doing, and not let my bank account narrate this part of the story.

I know YOU believe in me, Mates of State.

When I was following my favorite bands around earlier this month, I picked up this t-shirt at one of the shows. I took it as a sign that I was doing the right thing, so far (starting with trailing my favorite bands for three days).*

It’s going to be a bumpy ride, but I’m buckled in. I’m ready for it. Today, I’m choosing to believe I’m going to make it.

*I also take it as a good sign when Led Zeppelin comes on the radio, and an extra good sign if it’s one of my two favorite Zeppelin songs, but maybe that’s for another post entitled “Ways in Which I Delude Myself.”

You Don’t Need a Man…You Need an Abigail.

Moving is like the physical manifestation of an emotional decision and/or change. As your belongings disappear into boxes and your home disrobes and becomes bare, it reflects the vulnerability we feel as the one being moved. We’re in a no man’s land, a purgatory of a decision made but not yet fully realized.

I’ve moved four times in the last three years. Brooklyn to Boston. Boston to California. California to Georgia. Georgia to North Carolina. This is a lot, even for me. But because of this, I’m good at moving. I am an excellent packer. I can move apartments or cities or cross country and I will do it as cheaply and efficiently as possible. And, as the one who usually leaves, I know I have the upper-hand at good-byes.

Despite being so practiced at moving, the emotional stress is unavoidable. No matter how early I start packing, no matter how organized the move itself is, I will spend the hours I am packing in a constant therapy session with myself. “Am I doing the right thing? You’re doing the right thing. What if this is a mistake? Then you’ll figure out something else,” etc, etc.

Sometimes I have help, sometimes I don’t. It’s a pain not having someone to help you lift furniture or boxes, but it’s the emotional support that is really missed when doing a move alone. This move, I was lucky enough to have my best friend Abigail there. I didn’t even have to ask. When I was debating hiring guys to load and unload the truck, she said don’t pay for guys – we can handle it. While I packed up the rest of my stuff, she single-handedly loaded the truck. She followed behind me in the car while I drove the moving truck up to North Carolina. All of those things help mitigate the stress of a move, but the emotional support is worth more than what it would cost in movers (and because she’s my friend, she doesn’t charge me thousands for her services). Ab can look at me and know I’m freaking out inside and say “You’re doing the right thing,” or “One thing at a time.” When the move stress is at its peak, she was there to reiterate: We can handle this.

I’ve always appreciated my friends, and as my life only becomes more unpredictable the older I get, I know that I rely on them more than I ever have before. They certainly deserve my attention more than the bozos I spend most of my time writing about. A worthier pursuit, then, is to show my appreciation to those who have stuck around, rather than lament the men who haven’t. I should do it more often.

I know I don’t need a man. I just need an Abs. (Thank you, Abigail.)

This is Abigail. Obviously, she’s fun.

Wherever You Go, There You Are

I don’t really think of myself as a quitter, but lately, I’ve come to view this is as more of a weakness than as a strength.

I stay in relationships long after they have stopped working. Instead of walking away, I alter my behavior in hopes to change the situation. I lower my expectations, and I let go of a lot of things that bother me, thinking I will get just enough in the trade to satisfy me.

Sometimes, there is an argument for sticking with the devil you know. For me, though, I don’t want to acknowledge that ultimately, I am not getting I want, and I will never get what I want. I hold on with a death grip. It looks a lot like this:

That’s me, on top. (Drawing by David Shrigley)

When I moved to Georgia, I had recently gone through a lot of change. I quit drinking entirely, I moved away from the East Coast where I had lived for eight years, and I spent many months agonizing over what to do next. I was thrilled when I managed to get offered a spot in an MFA program. It seemed a good place to park for three years, focus on writing, and not have to worry about Next for a little while. It was the ideal antidote to my unmoored state.

During the months that I was preparing to go to school, just under a year of being sober, I went through a significant depression. Before I was diagnosed, I couldn’t understand what was wrong with me. I had taken the thing out of my life that I thought was the source of much of my unhappiness, but here I was, still totally miserable, and worse, feeling all the miserable feelings, which you can usually manage to avoid, for a little while, with alcohol (see how that works?).

I know how to manage the depression now. Part of that is recognizing that this is how I am, and another part is paying attention to when it starts to dip, and knowing that it doesn’t haven’t to stay that way. Remembering that I have the control to do something about it is helpful in itself.

For the last several months, here in Georgia, I’ve done all those things that I usually do when something isn’t working: I adjusted my behavior and my expectations. I’ve changed the few things I have control over in hopes that I can make it work just enough for me to want to stay here. And I see myself doing it again – not walking away, not cutting my losses.

So, I’m breaking the cycle. I’m not giving it one more try, and another, and another. “Just enough,” isn’t good enough. It never was.

As I ready myself to leave, the adage, “wherever you go, there you are” keeps popping into my head. I know that wherever I am, I’m still going to be me, slighter lower than normal on the happy scale. But, there are things that bring me happiness, and I want to live those things every day. Leaving a situation I don’t want to be in is one of those things.

Today, I’m leaving my program and moving to the mountains of North Carolina, where I’ll continue to bake and write and work, and live the things that make me happy.

Wish me luck.

Gay Marriage and You.

“Marriage responds to the universal fear that a lonely person might call out only to find no one there…It offers the hope of companionship and understanding and assurance that while both still live there will be someone to care for the other.” Justice Anthony Kennedy

When I first read Kennedy’s decision, I took umbrage, as did many others. He clearly states that if you’re unmarried you’re “condemned to live in loneliness” (yes, he actually wrote that). But, after re-reading it a few times, I decided to focus on the “hope of companionship.” Kennedy’s optimistic and overly-simplified picture of marriage is just that – hope.

In this great piece for The Cut, Rebecca Traister outlines how this can actually benefit single people. Once we remove the hetero-normative restrictions on marriage, we begin to open up to other ideas of how to live. “The freedom to marry someone of the same sex is the freedom to not have to marry someone of the opposite sex, which in an ideal universe should be tied to the freedom not to have to marry, period.”

This decision is about giving people the same rights as everyone else: it’s long over due. It gives me hope that these kinds of equality measures will continue to pass for other groups, (cough, ERA).

It may seem contradictory to look for ways single people can be afforded more rights in marriage equality, but I think this is a step in the right direction.

It’s the Journey...

I’ve been on a little road trip for a couple weeks now and I keep extending it. It’s been so wonderful to see friends and family along the way, explore new spots and visit old favorites. (Summer break, FTW).

Most days I feel like I could do this forever and just exist in this in-between. The quotidian left behind with something new ahead; the next spot is still full of promise, and expectations remain just that: expectations. They haven’t yet been unmet and turned into disappointments.

When I’m travelling, there’s something about the forward motion that keeps me from ever feeling lonely. Sure, sometimes I wish I had someone to help navigate, or try the amazing grilled pimento cheese sandwich I had for lunch, or split a hotel room with so I’m not staying alone in a shitty Motel 8 with a gang of bikers hanging out in the parking lot, but those moments are rare. When doing something that you’re supposed to do alone, it’s hard to feel lonely. For example, are you ever lonely in the shower? On your commute? Peeing? Of course not. Those are things that people naturally do alone.

But, it may be less about the alone and more about the forward motion. A friend I saw on this trip said he didn’t want to hear that in two years I was heading to some far flung part of the world, the implication that I had yet to stop moving and settle down. I told him that if that’s what I was going to be doing in two years, that sounded awesome. (There was also a not-so-subtle suggestion that I might be “running away,” but I see nothing wrong with running away from boredom.)

Jedidiah Jenkins has been riding his bike around for a year, and he says that that “the routine is the enemy of time.” He sums it up pretty well, repeatedly, here.

You don’t have to quit your job and ride a bike down to South America for a year to experience a better life, but there is an alternate way to live, one that doesn’t just consist of job/marriage/car/mortgage/death. And when you find yourself without those trappings, getting on that path can be a lot easier.

Purcellville, VA. Not pictured are piles of cousins, ice cream, tiny Legos, adventures to Harper’s Ferry, and thrift store shopping with this girl.

The King and I

I like to name the favorite inanimate objects in my life. The top three are my bike (Bear), my KitchenAid stand mixer (Maude), and my enormous king-size bed, which rivals all others for my affection.

Recently, with the help of a couple of my friends, I named him. King Gustav. I lived in Sweden with my family when I was a kid, and the name fits not only the regal nature of my king-size bed but also my fond affection for a place I spent the happiest portion of my childhood, before my teen angst and rebellion hit me (and my poor parents) with its full force.

I bought this bed when I moved to Georgia last August. It’s the biggest bed I’ve ever owned, and more than anything in my life, it serves as the ultimate daily respite. More than going to the gym in the morning. More than bike riding. More than baking. My friends know that when the clock strikes 9 pm I have to start heading home because I like to spend at least two hours in it before I actually go to sleep, catching up on television or reading. (Note, this is exactly the wrong thing to do if you have trouble sleeping – the only activity you should do in your bed is sleep {well, okay, there’s that other thing too}. Despite my near-constant sleep troubles, I ignore this practice and sacrifice sleep in order to spend some quality time with Gustav. )

I think about Gustav a lot throughout my day. In the mornings I’m grumpy when I have to leave him; during the day I’ll glance at him and resist doing anything on him like writing or working because I know the temptation to take a nap or watch a movie will be impossible to resist. At night, as soon as it’s acceptable, anytime after 8 pm, I’ll climb between his covers and arrange the pillows just the way I like them and burrow in. It’s heaven.

When I bought him, I was ending what had turned out to be over a year of bumming around. With Gustav, I was committing. By committing to a big, heavy, expensive piece of furniture, I wasn’t going to walk away as easily as I had in the past. Gustav was my anchor when I was trying keep myself from floating away aimlessly. Nearly a year later, I know that he and I are in it for the long haul, and where I go, he goes.

Sometimes it feels silly to own such a big bed for one person. Do I really need this much space? I have to force myself to shift into the middle so that I don’t just use one side. But Gustav allows me my space without judgment. “C’mon,” he seems to say. “Stretch out! Try the other side! I’m here to support you!” When friends come to visit, no need to set them up on the couch – Gustav is literally like having two separate beds.

If I were to draw a metaphor between my life and my bed (and you know I’m going to) I’d say that investing in my bed space has been like investing in my alone space. Being able to enjoy singlehood has allowed me to see how much room I have for others, and how much I appreciate those people in my life. Usually, it’s just me. But it’s nice to have the space for others when they stop by.

Yep, that’s a Care Bear. I’m one of *those* women.

Weird Loners

A few weeks ago when we were debating whether or not single men or single women had it tougher, a lot of you mentioned the single stigma. A lot of you who are coupled said you didn’t feel that way about single people, but acknowledged it existed. So, where exactly is this stigma coming from?

Last fall, much was made of the fact that the season’s pilots included numerous meet-cute love stories. Manhattan Love Story. From A to Z. Selfie. Marry Me. All of them have been cancelled.

So, in a perhaps overzealous effort to correct that, the networks have focused their attention on the singles. That is, the undateable, weird loners out there. (Literally. These shows are called Undateable, Weird Loners, and a recent favorite of mine added to this fall’s line-up, My Crazy Ex-Girlfriend.)

I watched Weird Loners. I watched a third of an episode of Undateable (because it should really be called Unwatchable.) In Weird Loners, one character moved home to care for his ailing parents. Another opted not to marry a man she’s not in love with. Add a free spirited artist and a player, and there you have it. All those weird people caring for other people, choosing not to live unhappily married, living their lives the way that want to. Crazy, right?

I didn’t even get far enough into Undateable to be able to tell you what the characters’ stories are except to say that it did reflect real life in the way that men manage to date women who are their superior is every way, so I’ll give it that.

Recently, I binge-watched the show The Killing (NB, spoiler ahead). At the end of the second season we finally learn who Rosie Larsen’s killer is. It’s not relevant that it is her aunt who unwittingly caused her niece’s death. She knew she was killing someone, and she did this because Rosie threatened her ability to finally be with the man she loved.

Throughout the show, the aunt is played as the desperate single in contrast to her sister’s family. She steps in when shit falls apart as the family mourns the loss of their eldest daughter, taking care of the two younger kids and helping out at the house. She works for an escort service, because if she’s single her bad life choices are a given, right? She falls in love with a married man. He finally sets it up to leave his wife. When her niece threatens this arrangement, the aunt takes care of the problem, causing her niece’s death. So determined and desperate is she to be with a man, she is willing to kill.

In one real life example, take the Love Hurts series on the Strangers podcast, that my friend Miriam recommended I listen to. The producer, formerly someone who had been in one relationship or another since high school, found herself truly single for the first time in her life, in her early 40s. In the final podcast of the series, she admits that when she was in a relationship, she had always felt a “slightly smug sense of superiority. I viewed single people as a little bit sad, a little bit less than.”

But, do we really feel that way about ourselves? Those in couples may pity us because being alone – the unknown - is what they may fear, and that’s projected on to us. As people now wait longer to marry, resulting in more singles than ever before, Hollywood seems to be making a misguided attempt to reach that new population, assuming we feel like freaks for being unattached and will identify with these depictions.

You may think I’m overreacting, but I’ll bet you don’t have to look too hard to see the pervasiveness of this sentiment. How does this extend beyond public perception? Do you we get tax breaks like marrieds do? Where’s the tax break for having a single income? What about a roommate tax break? What about employers offering more than one option for health insurance for single people, so we can choose between two shitty plans, like some employed couples? Apparently, singles are more civically active (and not simply “on the couch just ordering things from eBay.”) What about a tax break for that, at the same time those of you get a break for repopulating, an admittedly important job in itself?

Perhaps if the 50 per cent of the population that is single continues to grow, there will be a sea change in the way singles are perceived (and treated). Until then, I guess I’ll go back to being the sad, pathetic, lonely freak that everyone thinks I am, living my wholly unfulfilled single life writing, baking, working, going to graduate school, hiking, camping, fishing, reading, and traveling.

I Don’t Want to Date You, Either.

Last week, the general consensus was that yes, single men have it easier. Single women face more stigma, and they have fewer dating options. But, a lot you were also saying that you stopped dating after certain point.

Why is that?

For starters, the sex ratio widens as we age. In our twenties, there are more single men than women up to the age of 34. After 35, it reverses, and the gap continues to widen up to the age of 65. (Here’s some science on that.)

So, for women after 35, there are fewer single men. Of those single men our age (let’s say 35-50), who are they dating? Women under 35. Why? Their youthful beauty? Their ability to procreate?

Based on my very unscientific and anecdotal research, it’s neither of the above. Middle-aged men date women under 35 because women over 35 have dropped out of the dating game, and women under 35 are still actively putting themselves out there.

I know plenty of men in their forties who don’t want to have kids, and yet, I rarely see them dating someone their own age. These women are ten, fifteen years younger than them. I’ve actively participated as one of these couples too: only once in the last decade did I date someone who wasn’t at least five years older than I was. And, my tolerance for things that I didn’t actually like in the relationship was pretty high because of my long-term goal (marriage, kids). Also, in a depressed dating market for women (ahem, New York. If you look at that link you’ll see that enormous pink circle blocking all of New York City – I’m not making that shit up), tolerating the bullshit was a necessary evil if I wanted to stay attached and reach the goal. (Also, “tolerating the bullshit” is not a good dating strategy.)

I performed a very unscientific poll of one and grilled a friend of mine who is male, mid-forties, single, and actively dating (to put it mildly). Of the women he’s dated in the last few years, 80% of them have been five years or younger. He doesn’t want to have kids, so child-bearing age isn’t a factor for him. He says that age group is just who he meets.

I started asking around and found there are a lot of women who pull back from dating after a certain point. So, it isn’t superficial male blinders that create these age-lopsided couples.

Shelby (42, divorced, mother of one), says: “I started pulling back on pursuing dating when I realized that the quality of available men in their 40's just didn't make it worth the time and effort…Single men in their 40's are either divorced and dealing with the emotional fallout from that, or lifetime bachelors for a reason.”

My own tolerance for bullshit plummeted after a certain point (for me, that point was removing kids from my future). My standards rose and I acquired a zero-tolerance policy on settling. I want to know if he’s going to open up my world in ways it hasn’t already been opened. Is he going to meet the expectations I place on myself, on my own life? As Shelby says, “If I am to invest time in dating, I expect to date a man who can add to my life.”

There are other things that contributed to this diminished interest in dating, like the increased financial stability that comes with career experience. And, for those who are single moms, their already busy schedules didn’t justify making the time for duds. Kristin, 44, says: “Your bullshit tolerance moves very rapidly to zero when you realize that it's a lot more fun to be on your own than to sit by the phone waiting for some guy who doesn't appreciate the time you’re giving him.”

Hindsight is 20/20, and I’m trying not to consider what my life would have been like had my bullshit meter been set where it is now, say, five years ago. I’ll just be glad I figured it out when I did. Because, as Kristin pointed out, “life is too short.”

Trending Blogs

Recently Viewed Blogs

The Nouveau Spinster