A coupla single gals out on the town

Jodi and I went to Grumpys tonight after a somewhat successful (read: successful for her, total failure for me) workshop on Loft teaching proposals. The purpose was to discuss life, celebrate birthdays, eat tots, and, most importantly, drink beer.

Jodi and I are each other's only single friend. So, the talk inevitably turns to something of that subject--either how happy we are to be single, how sick we are of our married friends feeling sorry that we're single, or comparing various "singleton" habits. Once in awhile we chuckle over the idea of us living with any other human being.

Tonight we covered all of those subjects and more. And, from our conversation came two insights: one, that I have virtually everything I would need to survive nuclear warfare within arm's reach of my "spot" on the couch. Two, that it's possible, just *possible* that we don't actually want to get married.

The topic got started because Jodi was lamenting about the latest barrage of questions on her singleness. She said she's not sure she wants to get married but doesn't know if that's her "real answer" or a defense mechanism. I said I thought that we're at the age where the dream needs to become a reality or we switch the dream to one we can achieve (I said it neither that poetically or that sappily, by the way), and likened it to a novel. "Like when people ask me if I want to publish a novel," I said. "Sure, I say, if I've written one!" "Yes!" Jodi said, "It's exactly like that!" And we decided that, as thirtysomethings, we needed concrete dreams. It's not enough to say "Yes, I want to get married." Rather, it needs to be "I want to be married to _____."

Jodi then asked the million dollar question: "Have you ever not gotten something that you really wanted?" And I paused, swilled some of my Miller Lite, and realized that, no, I have never NOT gotten something that I REALLY wanted. Bing! Grumpy's lit up enough for me to see the smoke ring shadows on the walls from yesteryear. She went on to say, "Don't you think that if we really wanted to be married we would be? Why would that be the one thing we wanted and didn't get?"

And it's true....from the time I was little I have led a very blessed, very fulfilled life. I can honestly say I want for nothing. And yeah, I complain a lot, but when the end of the day rolls around and I crawl into my bed with a full belly and a roof over my head and my beloved Gatsby curled up next to me, my complaints always seem to fade away. I wanted to go to St. Olaf. Got it. I wanted to become a teacher. Got it. I wanted to, more recently, go to Belize to the writer's conference. Got it. I wanted to teach yoga. Done. I wanted to be published. Yep, got that too.

Of course my wants have changed over the years, and there are things that I probably wanted at one time and didn't get so my wants changed. I think marriage is in that category, but I'm not sure. In my 20s I wanted to get married because that's what you're supposed to want in your twenties. But now? Do I want to get married? Sure. Why not? But do I WANT to get married? Not enough to work for it. Not like I work to write, or work to educate myself, or work at yoga. If I meet an awesome guy? Sure, it could change.

There really is nothing in this world quite like getting together with someone who understands exactly where you're coming from with myriad life elements relating to singlehood. We single gals are few and far between--and far more similar than I think even we realize.

Hit me with your best shot...I'll "signal" you in for a landing.

Yesterday I met at Redstone with Fabulous Friend Heather. We try to meet at least every six weeks to debrief on life and occasionally exchange writing for each other's feedback. Yesterday was no business, all pleasure. We sucked down our bloody marys and were very kind to the nice waiter who appeared very innocent the first few times he asked if we were ready to order. But then:

We called him over to the table because we were all set. He approached on my right, as he had done several times earlier, and touched my arm. My arm. Right below my sleeve. My bare flesh. I had enough time to think "He's touching me. His hand is on my arm. His hand is STILL on my arm." at which point he had made his way to the other side of me (with, I think, his hand still attached to my arm, though unless he was Waiter Gumby that would not be possible). "Are we ready to order?"

I ordered my calamari and Heather managed to order her flatbread without choking or bursting out into a gale of laughter, but once he walked away we turned into two teenage girls who assume that because the teacher has turned his back means he can't hear anything anymore.

"What the hell was that?" I screeched.

"He so just hit on you!" Heather howled.

I put my head in my hands. "What WAS that??" I asked again.

And we proceeded to giggle and marvel over this unexpected full-on show of affection for a good half hour. Heather suggested I give him my number, which led into a conversation about our "types"--and how I am so not a beefcake guy kind of girl. I said something about "you marrieds" because she was enjoying this whole thing all too much, and she reminded me about the need for married folk to live vicariously through their single friends in certain regards. Understood.

The situation would have been funny enough on its own but the additional irony of the fact we had just, not five minutes earlier, been discussing the "signals" women may or may not put out to the men around them. Damn me and my siren song!

We were also able to recall the last time we ate at the patio at Redstone where the server was very openly hitting on me, flirting away (he didn't, however, wrap his hand around my bare damn arm!) until I gave him a big fat tip, at which point he said "Yeah, my girlfriend and I ....blah blah blah." But that was a common type of hitting-on. Nothing like yesterday's kamikaze, suicide-bomber type of flirtation.

Next time I go to Redstone I'm wearing a wedding band. And a chastity belt. And sleeves.

Coming to you live from 1954...

In Psych of Death and Dying tonight we did an ethics activity where one dialysis machine was available and five people needed it. I've done the activity before in other contexts so I knew what the basic idea was. In groups, we needed to decide on the best, most deserving person to use the machine knowing that the others would die as a result of not being chosen. We are given some information about each candidate, and then once we decide we are given more information about each candidate that is designed to call our original choice into question.

The point of the exercise is really no point at all: all lives are significant and there is no "right" answer. Done. I picked the 42 year old man who was on the brink of discovering the cure for cancer. To me, that seemed like a no-brainer.

What shocked the hell out of me was the way that the class eliminated the women from the group. There were three men and two women. The majority of the class chose Dave, a 19 year old male. Gone was Edna, a single 34 year old woman. Why? Because she didn't have kids. No one depended on her. Gone, also, was Coda, a 28 year old mother of four. Why? Trick question. Some people had originally chosen her, but with the additional information that it was actually her mother that did most of the caretaking for the children, off the list she went. Because the kids had someone that would raise them. Both women were young and firmly established either in a career or as a housewife. Yet they were not considered "worthy" of life as much as....

The 19 year old boy. Who is, I may add, childless, but apparently that's not a measure of value for men, only for women. Think of the potential this young man has! they proclaimed. As opposed to the 34 year old professional businesswoman who may as well drop dead for all she's contributing to society in the way of offspring.

I'm really surprised how much this is bothering me; it's a class exercise. It's a class exercise designed to show that no one's choice is correct. Done, end of story. But the people in my class were so dead set against these two women--saw no value in them whatsoever--and I kept sitting there thinking "This is me. I am Edna. And if these people are, God forbid, in charge of my life (which someday they may be--they're all younger than I am by about 10 years), I'll be shut down not because of something I've done, but because of what I *haven't* done." I haven't had children. I don't know that I ever will. I may never get married. And I left class tonight feeling like my worth as a person had been called into question. It was such a huge reminder that though I am surrounded by single women friends and married women friends who have decided not to have children and they love me and support me, the world is still uncomfortable with single, childless women.

I know, I'm going overboard with it. But, hey, as a single woman I guess I need to stick my voice out there and be heard. Who knows when someone will point the finger at me and decide that my value is less than--not equal too--that of a 19 year old boy.

A reason why being single doesn't suck...

Single people can stand in their kitchen in their sweats on a Saturday night blasting 'Rocket Man' by Elton John and prepare scrambled eggs (with cheese, onions, and green peppers) at 10pm.

Think about it.

One more note on things that shouldn't be said...

Yesterday I spent three hours at a curriculum development meeting for Language Arts. There were representatives from all grade levels, k-12, at the meeting. Elementary school teachers in my department typically make my blood boil. But I went into today with the goal to at least attempt to be understanding, civil, all that.

Unfortunately, I'm a bit raw these days.

So, when I'm in a group with two pregnant women who are talking about their bladders and how they can't make it through the day anymore, I don't say a word.

When the conversation is all about babies, I don't say a word.

When the talk about eating, and the weight loss and gain, I don't say a word. I throw up in my mouth a little and wish for death, but I don't say one word.

However.
When the 25-year-old-if-she's-a-day starts talking about how she thinks that younger teachers have more time to create better lessons and grade papers because they don't have children and families and other adult responsibilities, it was only the fact that she was pregnant that kept me from flying across the table and strangling her.

Don't assume that everyone over 24 years old is married and therefore "an adult." I'm thirty. Not married. Allllllll sorts of adult responsibilities in spite of that. Look at me go.

A PSA for Marrieds, Engageds, and others who are significantly attached.

I would like to take this time to remind all of you out there who escaped the Single world and crawled into marriage, engagement, or cohabitation/other significant attachment with another human being, that those of us who are still Single do not need to hear the following words:

There's someone out there for you.


Ever.

Variations on this include:
1. You'll find someone.
2. There's someone for everyone out there.
3. When it's the right time he'll (or she'll) find you.

etc. etc. etc.

The problem with this, Marrieds, is that however well intentioned the words are meant, it is impossible for them to not come out as being condescending. The patting on the head from someone who has "survived."

So please, keep these and other similar thoughts to yourself.

Thank you.