Clearly I’m failing at life.
Having been single for eighteen months, many-a concerned
person is raising this perilous predicament I have myself in and offering
their advice on how to change myself in order to remedy it. Life will not
resume until (cue southern-belle/damsel accent) I find me a man to look after
me.
Firstly, to those who are of this opinion and whom I’ve not
already said to your face, fuck off.
Secondly, the more I am bludgeoned by these archaic,
mind-numbingly boring lectures, the more I am finding a stoic resolve in myself
to oppose them.
My mother, whom at sixty-nine is entrenched in her old-world
views of chivalry to the point of impracticality, fought with me last week when
I was moving house, insisting that I allow her seventy-four-year-old partner
whom is recovering from bowel surgery to lift the ‘heavy’ boxes. Her argument
was literally “Let the man do it, Monique”. Let the man do it despite the fact
that I’m fit, young and capable, and he’s on the verge of collapsing? Righto.
More important for him to be a gentlemen than me a humanitarian, I guess.
I might be getting older and therefore more comfortable in
my skin, I might be a stubborn mule that is determined not to make personal,
life-changing choices based on someone else’s fear that I am going to die alone
and have my face eaten off by cats because I happen to not be married at the
antique age of thirty-two,
They're getting hungry...
or worse, that I simply won’t survive the treacherous
jungle of life without a man to walk before me and beat off every life
challenge away with his man-chette (see what I did there?), or perhaps the longer I am on my own the more I
realise what I am capable of – and I like it.
What began as a difficult and heartbreaking event has turned
into the best thing that could have happened to me; a realisation of who and
what I really want to be without the opinions and agendas of someone else tarnishing,
and dare I say it, sabotaging it. This is not a bitter attack on my
ex-partners, more an epiphany that as a younger, more pliable person I made
decisions about my future and gave lip-service to those around me about my
ambitions because I was factoring someone else in. I was lying to myself and
everyone else.
Some might read this and think it sad and lonely to take the
position that I was unable to flourish as my true self in past relationships
and therefore better off alone. Some might even suspect this merely being a
defence mechanism to mask my secret grief over my situation.
To that I say one:
please refer to the last two words in paragraph three, and two: I never have
and never will be the sad putz that envies married life and children. I see how
hard it is. No rose-coloured glasses resting on this spinster’s nose-bridge,
friends. Right now, I just don’t want it. It is my choice. And the fact that
people look in on the life of others who don’t fall asleep next to the same
person every night is somehow unfulfilled is offensive, and frankly, naive.
I have been told by two work colleagues inside the fortnight
that one: making myself to be seen as “too independent” will “turn men off” and
that “men don’t like strong women”, and two: “Moving into your own home moves
you further away from the goal of finding a partner” and “getting used to
having things the way you like them will make you less willing to compromise if
and when you move in with someone else”.
I am not even kidding. Apparently people, men and women,
still think this way.
It is like I’m in the Twilight zone, but the Twilight zone
is the set of Mad Men.
If my two colleagues saw me living to their logic, I’d just
stick out my tits, twirl my hair, wince when I bump myself, claim dependence on
anything with a penis and be grateful. And in the meantime, I should find
myself a kitch little spot in a Byron Bay gutter, place a cardboard box over my
head and wait for that penis to come along and rescue me. And then I can become
a whole person.
That sounds a lot more like my truth than someone bringing
in a reliable income, educating herself, living in a safe and peaceful home
whom enjoys a fulfilling social life, doesn’t it?
The last time I was in a long-term relationship I was
crippled by depression and financial and professional oppression. Single, I
have more money in the bank than I have in years, working toward my ultimate
career goal, laugh every day and can hear the beach when I go to sleep at
night.
Gee, I wish a man’d come and save me.
But I guess he’s too scared by the
“strength” it took lil’ ol’ me to achieve what I have so far. And scared he should
be, because I just don’t know if I’ll have the flexibility to allow him to move
the soap holder. ‘Independent woman’ translates to ‘obstinate battle-axe’ in
men’s circles, apparently girls, just in case, like me, you missed the memo.
Of course, I am not walking around my house singing 'I don't need a man' into my hairbrush like some dildo. But the truth is, I don't.
I proved this year, I'm perfectly capable of carrying a bed up a flight of stairs, opening jars, and buying myself flowers.
My little 'just because' present to myself. I'm a top bloke.
I don't see why that should make me scary. I think most modern guys would appreciate the less-needy type as a refreshing change.
Of course I am hopeful one day I'll find the right person. And yes, he will have to shout at the bar, open the door (if men knew what a panty-dropper chivalry is, you'd quit your 'women want equality but still want the door opened for them' bullshit & just do it), learn to use his words, and not be a dick.
But I'll be complete before that person comes along, and the direction our life goes in will be one that benefits us both. I will make compromises, yes (he can move the soap holder if he really thinks it impertinent and supplies me with a 3,000 word essay on why, followed by a three-round arm wrestle), but not sacrifices.
I wear my heart on my sleeve. In almost every social and
professional situation I say more than I should. I used to chide myself for
this and try and work on changing myself so as not to make the
men in my personal and professional lives uncomfortable.
But being on my own
has given me the distance to accept that that is who I am. I’m honest. If
people see that as a personality flaw they can refer to the last two words in
paragraph three.
I’d rather be judged for my honesty than admired for
bullshit.
As far as I’m concerned, the former is far less lonely than
the latter.
