What, Me Worry?
Sitting at Christmas dinner with friends of the family last week, I found myself in a personally shocking situation. In the eyes of others, I have become that girl. Or that woman, whatever you choose, as I am perhaps on the cusp of being considered a woman by all now. I thought that happened at age thirty. But whatever. I suppose when I was 15, I thought I became considered a woman by all at the age of 25, but as I breeze by the arbitrary markers without actually feeling remarkably womanly or mature, I keep pushing them back. I’m 27. Turning 28 in the coming month. And I don’t feel remarkably womanly, still mostly girly – stuck hovering somewhere between identifying with Lindsay Lohan and Kim Catrall.
But in my folksy hometown at Christmas dinner I am surrounded by married couples and their children, who they are raising to be wonderful little people to be around. Some of these kids I babysat while I was a teenager. And I love these people, because they are different from me but they feel so familiar. And to them, I have now become that girl (or that woman.) I’m the single girl approaching the age where they all fear for my ability to find a proper suitor for marriage. No prospects in sight, working a nine to five in the big city, coming home to a rental property with no pets and no responsibilities and no joy. I didn’t even bring the topic up, and still I found myself, for the first time, in this conversation:
J_____: Well, don’t worry, as women get older they tend to look for something more stable and less romantic.
Me (internally): Uh, worry? Right now, sweetie, I’m just worried about how we got onto this topic of conversation. How the hell did we get onto this topic of conversation? Is she about to pontificate? I gotta get out of here… Is dinner ready yet??
Me (externally, with raised eyebrows): Ahhhh…
J_____: I mean, I suppose I found my husband when I was older than you are now. So you really have nothing to worry about.
Me (internally): Again with the worrying. Did I say I was worried? Do I look like I’m worried? Well, I probably look worried now.
J_____: But he was a diamond in the rough. And they’re out there, you know, those diamonds in the rough. You just have to be on the look out for them.
Me (externally): That’s good to know. Pass the wine, please.
J_____: But you’ve got plenty of time, so don’t worry. You’ll find the right one.
Oh dear, this is some sort of folklore cliché, what people have started to view me as. This is so uncomfortable, I was thinking. I am now being viewed as the icon from Sex and the City or Bridget Jones’ Diary. Urban and educated, but single and somehow sad and unfulfilled.
Here’s the deal that I wasn’t going to go into with a friend of the family’s older sister because I didn’t want to engage her on some sort of defiant level, trying to prove that the life I was leading was not so worrisome or the prospects so bleak as she assumed. Who knows, perhaps she was only trying to express her own love of her great diamond-in-the-rough-husband. And if so, good for her, but I’m not worried. I date. I’ve met some guys in the past year that I’ve been interested in. Nothing has worked out for very long and that’s probably because at this point in life, everyone’s carrying some baggage onto the plane. Yes, I’ve been stood up but I’ve also given out my fair share of “not interested, keep looking.” I’m even casually on an internet dating site, which so far has led to a whole lot of nothing, but at least it’s an option. (I’m still trying to forget about the date with the pyromaniac. Long story.) There are days when I’m lonely, but those days are few and far between, and when they happen I know exactly which friends to call for some great company. And I don’t view this single stage of my life with any sort of permanence, because I don’t ever see any stage of my life as having any sort of permanence.
Life is fluid and full of surprises. The longest I’ve been able to devote myself to anything so far was four years of university in the same place. Mostly I find I have about a fifteen month cycle before things shake themselves up and re-arrange themselves again. I am actually a remarkably adaptable person, and when new opportunities come along, I tend to run with them. I am well-educated, well-traveled. I enjoy my job and love my friends and family. So worried? No. Clichéd? No. Willing to put up with the occasional implication that I ought to be worried? I guess so, but I’m not about to actively engage in the conversation.
But in my folksy hometown at Christmas dinner I am surrounded by married couples and their children, who they are raising to be wonderful little people to be around. Some of these kids I babysat while I was a teenager. And I love these people, because they are different from me but they feel so familiar. And to them, I have now become that girl (or that woman.) I’m the single girl approaching the age where they all fear for my ability to find a proper suitor for marriage. No prospects in sight, working a nine to five in the big city, coming home to a rental property with no pets and no responsibilities and no joy. I didn’t even bring the topic up, and still I found myself, for the first time, in this conversation:
J_____: Well, don’t worry, as women get older they tend to look for something more stable and less romantic.
Me (internally): Uh, worry? Right now, sweetie, I’m just worried about how we got onto this topic of conversation. How the hell did we get onto this topic of conversation? Is she about to pontificate? I gotta get out of here… Is dinner ready yet??
Me (externally, with raised eyebrows): Ahhhh…
J_____: I mean, I suppose I found my husband when I was older than you are now. So you really have nothing to worry about.
Me (internally): Again with the worrying. Did I say I was worried? Do I look like I’m worried? Well, I probably look worried now.
J_____: But he was a diamond in the rough. And they’re out there, you know, those diamonds in the rough. You just have to be on the look out for them.
Me (externally): That’s good to know. Pass the wine, please.
J_____: But you’ve got plenty of time, so don’t worry. You’ll find the right one.
Oh dear, this is some sort of folklore cliché, what people have started to view me as. This is so uncomfortable, I was thinking. I am now being viewed as the icon from Sex and the City or Bridget Jones’ Diary. Urban and educated, but single and somehow sad and unfulfilled.
Here’s the deal that I wasn’t going to go into with a friend of the family’s older sister because I didn’t want to engage her on some sort of defiant level, trying to prove that the life I was leading was not so worrisome or the prospects so bleak as she assumed. Who knows, perhaps she was only trying to express her own love of her great diamond-in-the-rough-husband. And if so, good for her, but I’m not worried. I date. I’ve met some guys in the past year that I’ve been interested in. Nothing has worked out for very long and that’s probably because at this point in life, everyone’s carrying some baggage onto the plane. Yes, I’ve been stood up but I’ve also given out my fair share of “not interested, keep looking.” I’m even casually on an internet dating site, which so far has led to a whole lot of nothing, but at least it’s an option. (I’m still trying to forget about the date with the pyromaniac. Long story.) There are days when I’m lonely, but those days are few and far between, and when they happen I know exactly which friends to call for some great company. And I don’t view this single stage of my life with any sort of permanence, because I don’t ever see any stage of my life as having any sort of permanence.
Life is fluid and full of surprises. The longest I’ve been able to devote myself to anything so far was four years of university in the same place. Mostly I find I have about a fifteen month cycle before things shake themselves up and re-arrange themselves again. I am actually a remarkably adaptable person, and when new opportunities come along, I tend to run with them. I am well-educated, well-traveled. I enjoy my job and love my friends and family. So worried? No. Clichéd? No. Willing to put up with the occasional implication that I ought to be worried? I guess so, but I’m not about to actively engage in the conversation.
posted by nerdifer at 11:19 a.m.
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