Saturday, June 29, 2013

Auntie Facebook Just Won't Let It Go

Facebook keeps asking me to declare my relationship status.  About once a week, when I sign on through my smartphone, a little panel pops up, urging me to finish my profile, but the only thing missing is the state of my lovelife. Facebook is like that annoying relative who keeps asking about every detail of your life and then gets huffy when you don’t want to answer. I don’t know why they’re so keen to have that information, and if they are, I don’t know why they don’t allow me to choose “Other” as they do with Religious and Political views. They provide a menu of options, but none fit my situation. I don’t want to put Single because the unspoken connotation is “Single and Looking, Gentlemen!”. I don’t want to select “It’s Complicated” because it really isn’t.  It’s very, very simple: I’m a Singularity. Introvert. Spinster. Quirkyalone. Unattached. Solo Mio. Autocratic Overlord of my own Sovereign State. Stubbornly independent to the point where I will sometimes place my well-being in danger. I hesitate to use the word “Loner” because while I do very much enjoy my solitude, I also like hanging with friends. I’m not ANTI-social, just selectively social. I’m not a hermit, because I leave my house all the time. And I’m not Anti-Couple, unless the couple in question is insufferable, condescending, or insistent that I join the Smug Couple Kingdom by letting them set me up with their neighbor/brother/coworker.  In many cases, one of the members of the most vehemently self-righteous couples will confide in me privately that their partner drives them nuts. Misery loves company, I guess. I don’t know the right label to describe my status, but Facebook doesn’t have it on their pulldown menu.
There just seems to be no way to say that I’m single and very happy.  Many people read that as, “You’re not happy, you’re just resigned to it, right? Have you tried eHarmony?”  Arggh! I’m 47 years old, and I’m fully content with my life. And when I think of my future, it is one of solitude, and that’s good! Really. I promise you, I’m good with that. It’s my plan.  If I didn’t like the idea, I would be on the prowl constantly for someone to pair off with. I just don’t want to. How else can I state that? Perhaps a list of reasons as to why I am fulfilled would be helpful.  Here’s why I like being, and will continue to be, single:
Freedom to do what I want, when I want, and not having to make sure it’s cool with someone else
Not having to deal with another person's drama
Not having to deal with another person's hangups
Not having to deal with another person's pouting
Not having to deal with another person's body odor or icky laundry
Not worrying about someone else putting up with my drama, hangups, pouting, body odor, and icky laundry
Spending my hard-earned money on myself, rather than things another person wants or needs
Being able to make decisions based solely on how the outcome will affect me, and just me
Making plans to do what I’m interested in doing
Being able to break those plans if I change my mind without ruining someone else’s plans
Sleeping in without being disturbed
Staying up late without disturbing someone else
Taking a nap
Watching what I want on my TV
Turning off the TV and being able to read in silence
Listening to what music I want to
Not being disappointed by someone
Not disappointing someone
Not having to assure someone that nothing is wrong, when all I want is silence
Being able to go for a walk or a drive, and not having to explain to someone that I just want to be by myself
Eating what I want, when I want. If I want to eat spaghetti four days in a row, well then, that’s what’s for dinner four days in a row
Letting the dishes sit overnight if I don’t feel like doing them
Not having to pretend I care about someone's sports team or job
Cluttering up my home with things that I find aesthetically pleasing, and not having to bargain for space to do so
Did I mention doing what I want, when I want? It bears repeating, because it is the central point of my life paradigm.  Simply put: I want to do what I want to do.
I could go on and on. Facebook will just have to keep bugging me to pick an answer, because what they want is too hard to explain.  I am who I am, and the most important word there is “I”.

Monday, February 18, 2013

Commuter Stories

I drive to work at about the same time along the same route every day and as a result, I see the same cars. We hit the same traffic lights and pick the same lanes like clockwork. It’s kind of dehumanizing in a way, but such is the commuter life. To pass the time and keep myself from crashing into a street light out of sheer boredom, I make up stories about the cars and their drivers.

Here are those stories:

The Prius driven by the man in a business shirt and tie. You’d think he’d be a kind, ecofriendly soul, but he drives like a complete jackass. He cuts people off and tailgates.  So much rage.  He used to be a hippie, maybe a drummer or poet. Now he sells insurance and hates his life. His car is his last clinging concession to his wild youth.

The pickup truck driven by the man who has his high school tassel dangling from the rear view window. He’s in his mid-30s, and graduating from high school has been his greatest accomplishment so far.  He still lives with his parents, and when they die, he’ll have the place to himself and he won’t have to turn down his stereo. Maybe he can have girls over, too. He just won't know how to cook or do laundry, since his mom does it for him, and always has.

The sports van driven by a woman who’s got a license plate frame saying “HAPPINESS IS BEING THE MOM OF TWINS” and a few “My child was student of the month at Blah-Blah School for the Overly-Entitled.” Her vanity plate also implies something as much.  She is the kind of parent who works her twin stories into every single conversation, regardless of the subject, whether it be with friends, coworkers, or the person behind her in line. Her entire existence is defined by her children's lives and her parent smugness oozes from her car like exhaust.

Some jacked-up economy car driven by a teenage white boy who plays gangsta rap so loud that it rattles my windshield. He’s eighty credits behind in high school, and every time an adult asks him what he plans to do after graduation, he said he’s going to be a rap star, bigger than Eminem. He’s never once been on stage, but he will be someday. I hate idling at a light by him, and I pass him as quickly as I can, not only to get away from that noise he blasts but also as some warped old lady vindication. “Suck on that, Snoop-Dog,” I say as I blaze past him.

The work truck full of Hispanic men with sun-weathered faces and cowboy hats. The back of the truck is full of landscaping tools and bags of dirt. Even though they work outside together all day, they’re still laughing and talking, even at this early hour.

The ancient Jeep Wagoneer driven by an obese man with a red face and scraggly beard. He eats a donut quickly, slurping coffee in between big bites. It is a miracle that both car and driver are still mobile.  Both their demises will be cataclysmic and sudden. The only question is which one will go first.

The red Hyundai driven by a young woman who jams to her tunes with such verve that she’s almost rear ended me a few times.  Her hair is stylish, and she wears fashionable sunglasses and perfect manicure, but she does not have car insurance. When she eventually DOES rear end me, her daddy will pay me off to keep me from contacting the police or the DMV.

The shiny black foreign sports car driven by an older blonde woman.  She doesn’t fit the neighborhood, which is stubbornly middle class. She works in Calabasas or Los Angeles, at a job where the kind of car you drive matters. Her car payments are more than her mortgage.


I’m sure some of them have made up stories about me too. I’ve got a Subaru with bumper stickers that reflect a childish fixation on pop culture and my dogs.  Yet, storytelling passes the time until we can all reach the freeway onramp and disperse on our various ways.  When summer passes, and the new school year starts, I’ll have new commuters to observe and wonder about.