Singledom and Childfreedom

    I am single. Unattached.  Whizzing through life solo. Now, let me stop you before you start with the inevitable questions like, “Have you tried eHarmony?” or “Would you like to meet my neighbor? He just got divorced.” I am single by choice.  And I’m not alone.  CNN reported on August 20 that “There are 96 million people in the United States who have no spouse. That means 43 percent of all Americans over the age of 18 are single, according to the U.S. Census Bureau...Of the singletons, 61 percent of them have never said ‘I do.’"
    I am one of those 61%. I used to tell strangers that I was divorced because people seemed to find that more understandable than never married. If I did say I’d never been married, inevitably the next question was, either directly or implied, “Are you a lesbian?”  I’m not, for the record. I was never offended by the assumption, but  I was irritated by the fact that “not married” meant “not interested in men.” I love men; I just don’t want to live with or answer to one.
    I am a quirkyalone, a term coined by writer Sasha Cagen in 1999: Quirkyalone-- n. adj. a person who enjoys being single (or spending time alone) and so prefers to wait for the right person to come along rather than dating indiscriminately; relishing equal doses of solitude and friendship; attracted to freedom and possibility. (quirkyalone.net)  This is me to the letter. I don’t reject the idea of pairing off someday, but I’m perfectly content for it NOT to happen. If I do, the guy will need to be PERFECT for me, and no, I will not lower my requirements to accommodate a less-than-perfect partner into a life that is already good.  What will be will be, and I’m not going to waste one precious second trying to force my life into a direction that it’s not naturally heading. I have lots of good friends, I have two devoted dogs, and I have an unwavering, obsessive love of solitude.  These elements are entirely under my control and are enough to complete my happiness.
    I HATE dating. Friends of mine talk about how they love the first date, the opening salvos of a potential relationship.  Not me. I loathe sitting across the table from someone and feeling like I’m on a job interview, (What music do you like? What brought you to California?) I have to admit, at some point, that I couldn’t care less about sports or cars or video games or what a guy does for a living. and so therefore,  I’m interviewing for a “job” (either wife or girlfriend) that I don’t really want.
    And if I do make it past a dozen dates, that’s no good either. Throughout the years, I’ve increasingly become a bad girlfriend: self-centered, insecure, defensive, indifferent. All those things guys complain about to their friends, I embody. I don’t like who I am when I’m someone’s girlfriend, and that reflects onto whatever hapless man I’m linked to. It’s not fair to either of us. 
    Adding to my resolve is the objective of dating.  If the ultimate goal is to find a life partner, then again, no thank you. I have no intention of ever voluntarily living with anyone.  My space is mine, and as much as I respect a guy’s right to have all his guy stuff around, I don’t want it polluting my space. I love coming home to a quiet house, the only noise being the joyful yips of my dogs, celebrating my return.  Once that scene plays out, I can melt onto my couch and relish the silence for as long as I like. I don’t worry about making conversation or being pouty about having to watch something on television that I don’t like.  My home is my cave, my fortress, my domain, filled solely with things that please or amuse me. I can’t see giving that up, ever.
    Then there’s the touchy issue of children.  I don’t want any, either full-time or part-time. The men I meet all seem to want kids or already have them, and this is an instant dealbreaker for me. Again, spare me the platitudes like, “But parenting is the most rewarding thing you can do” or “Medical advancements have made such strides. You can still have one!”  I know. I made the conscious decision not to be a mother, either biological or adoptive.  At various times in my life, I thought I would have children, but it never completely felt right. I assumed I would because that’s what women do: breed. But it slowly began to dawn on me that I didn’t want kids, I didn’t need kids, and all the things I love about my life would be drastically changed or eliminated if I had kids. Perky moms tell me that you don’t MIND giving up all the fun things in your life, because they’re replaced by other fun things involving your children.  But I really, REALLY like my fun things, and I can’t imagine that hanging out at a playground or child’s birthday party can be any better than say, a spontaneous roadtrip, a wildly experimental cooking session, or a day with no plans or activities at all.  I have many friends who have kids, and while I don’t mind listening to stories about their parental adventures, I do need to sit on the urge to say, “That’s cool. Now you listen to the cute things my dogs did.” I have nothing to add to parent talk, except the occasional “Oh, that’s sweet.”
    I'd say that 90% of the people I talk to about it are fine with my decision not to procreate, as it's becoming more commonplace. Pew Research Center reported that nearly one-in-five American women ends her childbearing years without having borne a child, up from one-in-ten in 1970 (June 25, 2010).  But every once and awhile, I'll meet someone who assumes that I didn't have kids because I couldn't land a man.  That rankles me and gets me snarky about parenthood and smug coupledom. It’s an archaic notion that all people need to pair off and breed.  Or they'll say something like, "You can always adopt" like I'm a moron who wants a kid but doesn't know where to get one.  It makes me laugh when they suggest that I'm just being selfish. I counter with "You bet I'm selfish. Good thing I don't want to be a parent, because purely selfish parents turn their kids into clingy miniature versions of themselves." And really, no one becomes a parent for entirely unselfish reasons. You become a parent because you want something to nurture and love, and to love you in return. How is that not just a tiny bit selfish? If you’re up for the lifelong task, all the best. My dogs fulfill my limited needs for loving and nurturing, but I can also leave them with a dog sitter or home alone with a chewy, with a minimum amount of guilt on my part.  My mutts and I have an understanding that the law does not extend to a human dependent. I know. I watch the news.
    I’m very happy with my life. If someone should come along who will complement that rather than complicate it, that'll be fine.  I’ll shove aside some of my stuff and let him bring a few boxes in. But I’m not holding my breath for it, or scanning the internet.

A Side Effect of Living Alone

When one lives alone, it’s easy to allow your self-indulgence to lead to decisions that are detrimental to your health. Luckily, I have no interest in drug use or heavy drinking, but I do tend to overeat, since everything in the fridge and the cupboards is selected BY me, FOR me. As a result, my weight has been steadily climbing. Not that having a living companion would change that much. One chirpy little “Let’s go for a hike” from a skinny roommate or boyfriend would send me scowling to my room with a box of Hostess SnoBalls. I’ll exercise when I damn well please, and suggestions to do otherwise can be crammed hard, thank you very much. But it’s easier for me to be very lazy when I'm not being observed and judged by someone else. Don’t get me wrong. I LOVE living alone, and will always do so. But this does put the onus of my controlling my health squarely and exclusively on my shoulders.  I started Weight Watchers online this week.  I’m not announcing this to give them free advertising or to get “You go, girl!” feedback.  I’m stating it as a new thing in my life, a thing that will hopefully IMPROVE my life, both immediately and in the long run. I have no dreams to be a bikini model or a swizzle stick. I always have been and always will be heavy. I’m not doing this out of any concern about my looks but about my health. My cholesterol level is twice what it should be, my blood pressure is elevated. I am technically obese, which is such an ugly word, but it must be said. My clothes are uncomfortable, and I refuse to buy a whole new wardrobe in larger sizes to accommodate my girth, especially when I have within my power the ability to take control of it. I have made a conscious and careful decision to live alone for the rest of my life. As a result, I MUST stay healthy, both mentally and physically, or else I’ll be forced to surrender my independence and solitude, and become a burden to a family member or God forbid, an assisted living facility.  This is what I need to remind myself of when I’m tempted to eat a quarter of a cake or a pint of Ben and Jerry’s. My autonomy must be maintained, at all costs.  I can rationalize any abuse to my body as a carpe diem fling. But as I approach my 45th birthday, I have to accept that balance is needed every day, for tranquility and strength. So of course, I’m not giving up on the Ben and Jerry’s but what I WILL do is focus on keeping all things in balance.

A Poem for 9/11

For the Falling Man     by Annie Farnsworth 

I see you again and again
tumbling out of the sky, in your slate-grey suit and pressed white shirt.
At first I thought you were debris
from the explosion, maybe gray plaster wall
or fuselage but then I realized
that people were leaping.
I know who you are, I know
there's more to you than just this image
on the news, this ragdoll plummeting—
I know you were someone's lover, husband, daddy.
Last night you read stories
to your children, tucked them in, then curled into sleep
next to your wife. Perhaps there was small
sleepy talk of the future. Then,
before your morning coffee had cooled
you'd come to this; a choice between fire
or falling.
How feeble these words, billowing
in this aftermath, how ineffectual
this utterance of sorrow. We can see plainly
it's hopeless, even as the words trail from our mouths —
but we can't help ourselves—how I wish
we could trade them for something
that could really have caught you.    

Happy Little Thing for September 10

I have a set of identical twins in my class who can get a little snippy about being mistaken for one another, even though they are IDENTICAL. In order to avoid annoying them today, I pretended that I was reading something on my desk, and asked without looking up "Ryan, what teacher did you have before me?" As I looked up to see which one would answer, they BOTH did. It was actually kind of funny.
Oh, and it's FRIDAY!!!

Happy Little Thing for September 8

I've rediscovered the song Canned Heat by Jamiroquai.  I've been cranking it loud and hard on my commute this week.  I always think of Napoleon Dynamite busting a move to it, and that makes me smile even more.

Happy Little Thing for September 8

Rarely am I impressed with my culinary creations.  I focus on making my meal healthy and easy, so it's usually edible, but not memorable.  Tonight, staring into the abysmal hollow of my refrigerator, I gathered some veggies and pizza dough that were all well past their expiration date. I knew I was toying with a host of possible food poisoning maladies, but I was hungry and too tired to go to the store.  I sauteed the veggies, wrapped them all in the dough and baked it.  I must say, it turned out extremely tasty.  The vegetables melded into a lovely melange, and the dough was crunchy and a nice contrast to the filling. Should I quit my job and open a restaurant that serves just this dish? Nope, but I could serve it to friends and not have to face awkward polite responses and excuses.

Happy Little Thing for September 7

I was dreading my first period class when I saw the class list.  Thirty-nine sophomores is bad enough, but 29 of them are boys. My experience has been that classes are always more difficult to manage and engage if there's a gender imbalance. Too many girls means drama.  Too many boys means 56-minute pissing contests. Even though it's early in the year, I'm cautiously delighted with this group.  Many of the boys are friends, and they're genuinely very, very funny. So far, they're courteous and just a little squirrely.  We have to spend a lot of time together, especially during standardized testing, when all the testing is done in the first period class for the whole week. I hope this group stays this entertaining.

Happy Little Thing for September 6

The mixture of the smells from cilantro fields and the ocean.

LOADS of Happy Little Things for September 5

Here are two parallel versions of the morning I had today.
The first one is the grumpy version.  I woke up early and decided to take the dogs to the beach. We get there, I lock the car, we go on to the beach. The dogs are frantic with happiness, It’s foggy and kind of chilly, but they brave the cold water to fetch the sticks I throw in. We all romp and play until we’re exhausted.  The dogs are cold and hungry and limping from fatigue, so I decide it’s time to leave.  I reach into my pocket and my car keys are not there. Mind you, we’ve run up and down the beach, but it’s a huge key ring, so I assume it’ll be very easy to find them.  I criss cross the beach a dozen times at least, to no avail. Meanwhile, both dogs are shivering and whimpering. I call a friend who lives nearby, but she is out of town for the long weekend.  I call Subaru Roadside Assistance, a service that was highly touted by the car dealer when I bought the car.  The operator is snarky and annoyed that I can’t recall how many miles I have on my car, nor can I read the vehicle identification number without my glasses.  She won’t answer any of my questions (specifically “Is there anything that Subaru can do to help me in this particular situation?”) until I give her the necessary information. I hang up on her. I call AAA.  They are more sympathetic, but can’t help.  My phone starts to die, so I can’t call anyone else.  I borrow a phone from someone in the parking lot and call a cab to get a ride home so I can get my spare key and then come back. I have to leave my car at the beach with my purse, iPod, and house keys in full view.  If someone finds my keys before I get back, they can deduce from the Subaru key chain which car is mine and empty it out, or just steal it altogether.

Now, here’s the pleasant version of the same events. I thank God for the friendliness and kindness of people.  When I first realized I couldn’t find my keys, I started stopping other beachgoers and asking if they’d seen them. No one had, but everyone was concerned, and some helped me look around. They in turn told other people, so at one point, nearly everyone on the beach was looking for my keys.  A sympathetic couple let me borrow their phone to call a cab, and the man at the taxi company was very kind.  The cab arrived right away, driven by a lady named Tanya, who was an enthusiastic dog lover and didn’t mind my sandy dogs in her backseat.  She assured me that my car would be fine and she just knew that someone would find the keys and turn them in.  She drove me home, waited until I got my dogs settled and found my spare key, then drove me back to my car. My car WAS fine when we got back, and she knocked $10 off of my fare.  When I got my car opened, and everything hidden and secured, I went back to the beach to look again. I talked to a courteous young lifeguard and a few more beachgoers, and they all promised to keep an eye out for my keys. I drove home and fed the dogs and ate some breakfast.  About an hour later, a girl from the YMCA called and said that someone had found my keys at the beach, noticed my Y membership card that’s attached to the key ring, and dropped them off there.  The staff looked me up, and despite the fact that I’ve let my membership lapse, I’m still in the files so they phoned me to let me know that they would hold my keys at the front desk and I could come get them at my earliest convenience.
So even though the situation was aggravating, I got to talk to several lovely people whom I otherwise would not have spoken to had my original intention of playing at the beach with my dogs gone to plan. I’ve rarely had to RELY on the kindness of strangers, but I am dearly grateful for it.

Addendum to Happy Little Thing for September 4

Glass of champagne with a splash of Pimms and a fresh strawberry.

Happy Little Thing for September 4

Being back at school has reawakened my appreciation of weekends.  Every day is a day off during the summer, so it's easy for me to forget how precious free time really is.  Today, I slept in, lingered over a couple mugfuls of coffee, took the dogs for a long walk, went to the farmers market, did a little yardwork, then took a nap. I'm now winding up a major goof-off session on my laptop, and am preparing to take the dogs to the park.

Happy Little Thing for September 3

The lovely silence of my classroom on a Friday afternoon after school.  It was a good week, getting to know the kids and slowly getting back into the routine of a day partitioned into 56 minute blocks. And now I decompress, as I do every afternoon.  I sit quietly, take stock of the day, and wait for the parking lot traffic to clear out.   It's a long weekend, so that makes this time that much sweeter.

Happy Little Thing for September 2

As loath as I am to get up early, it's at once both peaceful and energizing to walk the dogs through the deserted park in the foggy dawn.

Happy Little Things for September 1

It was the first day of the school year today. It's always exhausting, because I have to switch from being a lazy, self-centered couch load to being on my feet all day, attempting to engage herds of 40 teenagers at a time for 56 minutes.  But it was a good day.  The best part was that many of my former students made a point to stop into my classroom to say hello.  It is nice to reconnect with colleagues and students.