- I Don't Like Kids. There. I Said It.
- Where Do Old Broads Hang Out? (An Oldie but Goodie)
- I'm Single and Happy...Why Does That Make Them So Mad?
- What's Wrong With Separate Bedrooms?
- Why I'm Done With Online Dating!
- How Can I Be Happily Single When I Hate Being Single?
- The Extraordinary Rise and Surprising Appeal of Living Alone
The Spinsterlicious Life
So now that my move to Australia is definitely happening and I have a signed contract and a (tentative) start date, it’s sinking in what this really means: I have 1000 things I need to make happen before I leave. “It’s only slightly overwhelming” I say both confidently and sarcastically.
For the last two years, I have been talking about getting rid of so much of the stuff that I’ve accumulated throughout the many years I’ve been alive, but it never really happened. I regularly pull out stuff to get rid and then come up with a reason why I should hang onto it awhile longer.
It’s funny, though. Once I did the math of how much it costs to store or ship this stuff, making the decision to let it go became much easier. In one day, I dropped off 9 bags of clothes, shoes, and accessories at the Salvation Army. And, with the help of my dear friend, Benilde, I sent 6 large boxes of books, housewares, and electronics to a Veteran’s organization. And I’m just getting started!
I’m enjoying fantasizing about my new residence in Sydney. Something minimalist and open…which is a curious twist because there’s nothing minimalist about the way I live now. So, I had a fun lunch with some Aussie co-workers who helped me narrow down neighborhoods I might like to live in.
The hope is to find something sufficiently close to my job in North Sydney AND robust enough to keep me happy after hours and on weekends..meaning restaurants, shopping, and stuff to do, indoors and outdoors.
I went to a great party a few weeks ago.
While enjoying the festivities, I noticed a pretty good-looking guy looking my way. When we made eye contact, he smiled, nodded, and lifted his champagne glass to me. Under normal circumstances, I would have responded in kind and maybe even gone over to him. This time, I froze for a second and then looked away. “Oh no”, I’m thinking, “this is no time to fall in love”. Dramatically, I took it all the way to love, when it could have ended after a conversation. But I’m taking no chances. The reason I was able to so easily take advantage of this opportunity is because I have no husband or children to get in the way. I’m certainly not going to start complicating things now with this handsome stranger.
One of the great things about going to Australia, as opposed to, say France, is that I don’t have to learn a new language. Yet, in a way, I do. Technically, it’s all English, but half the time I have no idea what the Aussies in my office are talking about. In fact, I have a chart at my desk to help me decipher the language of a particular Australian who sat next to me
I’m not happy about having to learn the metric system…and how to convert Celsius to Fahrenheit.
But I’m really looking forward to:
– The food. I hear it’s great.
-And that work:life balance isn’t even a concept there –like it is in America. It’s just naturally the way they live!
and this! (Click on link, for a smile)
Saturday, June 20, 2015. 11:17a
Saturday morning. Sprawled on the couch. TV on in the background, reading the NYTimes the old-fashioned way (that is, not on my iPad). My apartment is a bit of a mess as I start-and-stop cleaning up, vacillating between putting stuff back in the closet and putting it in bags and boxes. Because I might be moving.
I am excitedly anticipating the Sunday night phone call I have scheduled with HR and the CEO of my possible/probable new job in Sydney, AUSTRALIA!!!
It’s pretty much a done deal, though we haven’t put anything on paper and signed it yet. Even though I’ve been talking about it for a month, it doesn’t become really real until it’s in writing. And I can’t wait.
I’m on the verge of a wildly exciting new chapter in my life. “Wildly” exciting because I’ve never even been to Australia, and yet I am solidly sure that moving to this place I’ve never visited will, nevertheless, be good. I know that some people think it’s a little crazy…but I don’t think it’s crazy at all. For me, it’s an adventure. It’s only for two years and I think I can handle anything for two years.
I’ve always wanted to live and work abroad, and yet, I’ve passed on the few opportunities I’ve had because the timing just didn’t feel right. I don’t even remember now why I passed on the offer to move to Toronto 25 or so years ago. Probably something to do with some guy I was dating…who I don’t even remember now. Or maybe it was for a more substantial reason. I dunno. Another time, I didn’t want to move so far away from my dad who was almost 90. And last year when the prospect of Australia was raised, I didn’t want to leave my dog. Dear Danny was 15 years old and in uneven health. I couldn’t take him with me because Australia requires a six-month quarantine of any dog entering the country. I didn’t think Danny (or I) would easily survive that. But Danny died in May and “Operation Danny” –as my soon-to-be boss called it– began in earnest. Operation Danny because I was now free to go.
It feels really right. I’m 60 ( just about). I don’t know how many more fantastic opportunities like this will just fall into my lap. My new boss is my old boss. I worked with her two years ago when I joined TNS. I like her a lot and we work well together. And I climbed a mountain with the Australia office’s CEO last year. Neither of us had any idea when we met on that mountain that we might be spending lots more time together. I’m a city girl and Sydney is a thriving metropolis that looks just like the kind of place I can fall in love with. They speak English there. I don’t have to learn a new language…though I know the metric system will give me an ongoing headache. But I’m ready. I love an adventure.
Hurry up Sunday night. Let’s get this thing started.
Monday, June 22, 2015 9:48p
It’s ON! Australia, here I come. In our Sunday night phone call we worked out all (well most) of the details. It’s actually going to happen. We’re thinking late September/early October…which feels like it’s right around the corner.
Now, there’s sooo much to do…purging stuff, storing other stuff, banking and tax
annoyances, and most worrisome: renting out my NYC co-op and my Long Island vacation home. (Anybody interested?)
This is really big. Australia is so far. (The NYC –> Sydney flight is 22 hours). Being that far away from my family is going to feel weird. But life is to be lived and I love an adventure. I’m happy, excited…and a little overwhelmed. Carpe diem. YOLO. Stay tuned!
Below is a guest post from a very loyal reader of The Spinsterlicious Life. I think Dee is amazing: she’s mart, funny, and adventurous. She’s also tired of people who try to make her feel bad about being single. I’m happy to run her guest post:
Not long before the holidays last fall I went to get a manicure. Salon manicures are not something I usually do, but someone had given me a gift card for my birthday, so I made an appointment.
At first I sat in the chair across from my nail tech in awkward silence. Just when I thought she wasn’t going to try and make conversation with me, she started asking me questions — first about my curly hair and then about my life.
Are you married?
(I knew where this was headed.)
How old are you?
That’s when her eyebrows raised with concern. She didn’t look up at me, but her expression said it all.
“Maybe you’re too picky,” she said shaking her head.
I just brushed it off and hoped for a subject change and that she’d get the second coat of my red polish on quickly. Some birthday present that turned out to be!
I read somewhere recently that people can’t make you feel bad about something you don’t already feel bad about. So if someone calls you crazy, it means nothing unless you buy into it yourself. Put another way, no one can make you feel bad without your permission. I was giving this stranger (and society at large) permission to make me feel bad. I felt bad because (and I hate to admit it) I have bought into the belief that it’s shameful or embarrassing not to be partnered up. I don’t so much care about the kid thing, but the relationship part can trigger single shame in me big time.
Single women are constantly bombarded with messages about finding/keeping a man. On TV sitcoms, romantic comedies, magazine and online articles, online dating commercials, family, friends, coworkers. It can be extremely hard to tune all of that chatter out and actually stop and listen to your own voice, your own inner wisdom that knows what’s best for YOU. The radio static can get even fuzzier when close friends are fretting over their own single/childless state. They are fretting and anxious, so it can make you anxious and before you know it, you’re stressed and life is passing you by.
I’ve decided I’m done. I’m done stressing. I’m done being anxious. I’m done waiting. I’m done fretting. I’m done analyzing and trying to figure it out. Most importantly, I’m done caring what society/family/friends/the media has to say about what I “should” do with my life. The more I thought about the woman in the nail salon, the angrier I became. Why was I letting complete strangers make me feel bad about my life?
I realized as I thought about it (and got angrier about it) that if I completely turn off the outside world, I really don’t care if I get married and “settle down.” It’s just not a top priority in my life. When I stopped and asked myself if I actually want a relationship or if I just want to ease the social pressure, my truth is that more than anything I want to silence the social pressure, judgment and shame. I even reflected on whether I want kids (even though I’ve always been pretty sure that I don’t) just to see how it feels in my body to sit with my decision – without the commentary playing in the background. And, nope, still don’t want kids.
I’ve always known my own truth. I can just get sidetracked and thrown off of my Spinsterlicious game when the barrage of messages becomes too loud. When that happens I get in a panic. (Side note: I even briefly looked into adopting a child when a friend of mine was agonizing over her biological clock. That idea lasted five minutes.) I’m working on staying centered in my truth and not getting knocked down so easily. My aha moment came when I realized that I have the power to stop internalizing the messages.
So here I am ready to continue living my Spinsterlicious life. Only now I’m done with the anxiety. Because I know the anxiety is not about my own true desires, it’s about peer pressure and a human need to fit in and be “normal.”
Here’s my plan: Go “deep single” (love that phrase) and live my life on my terms endeavoring to fully savor my freedom. Seek out new adventures. Continue to travel. Continue to decorate my apartment and make it my sanctuary. Continue to enjoy my work, hobbies and friends. If I meet a great guy along the way, great. But I’m no longer holding out hope that some guy needs to be “the one” so that I can quiet the anxiety. That’s way too much pressure. I’ll just nix the anxiety now, so that if he doesn’t show up, I can live in peace.
I’ve been living a Spinsterlicious life all along. I just needed to get back in touch with me and remind myself that I got it going on!
How about you? Do you ever get sidetracked and question your own truth? What are your strategies for regaining your footing and getting centered?
“What made me think I wanted to climb a mountain?”, I said to myself, out loud, in hour 3, Day 1 of the slow, extremely strenuous, even boring trudge toward the summit of Mount Toubkal in the High Atlas Mountain range of Morocco.
This was way more than I had signed up for. I was expecting a leisurely hike up a sloping incline with beautiful vistas every step of the way. What I got was the toughest physical challenge that was more than I could have imagined and certainly amazing views of a world I’d never seen but the scenery wasn’t changing fast enough for me…every few hours, and I wanted more. It was mostly rocks.
And then it started to pour rain, a steady non-stop deluge for 6 hours. And no matter how much waterproofing you’ve done, in that kind of water, you’re going to get wet. Very wet. Soaked through every layer of clothing, down to the skin. And even though you’re drenched through and through, you have to keep going because there’s nowhere else to go. You’re on a mountain. So, all 31 of us kept trudging along step-by-step, though one woman had an even tougher time and had to finish this leg of the trek on a mule that was sent to “rescue” her. We were heading to the Neltner Refuge where we planned to spend the night. It was hours away.
Here’s how I got myself into this situation. The TNS Global (where I work) parent company, Kantar, has a relationship with UNICEF. This trip was a fundraiser for UNICEF’s Brighter Futures, with the money slated to help children in Malawi, Bangladesh, and Bolivia. It sounded amazing and I signed up immediately. I’m happy to say that our team raised about $110,000, exceeding our goal by approximately 30%.
So, back to the mountain climbing part. We finally made it to the refuge after about 8 hours. The place was full. 31 of us, plus probably another 30 climbers who were also crashing there. We slept 26 to a room. There were four showers. Two toilets that sometimes flushed and two of those hole-in-the-floor thingys they called toilets. Bring your own toilet paper.
We were greeted by a staff of several “locals” who came bearing gifts of mint tea and cookies, before they served us a hot dinner while we sat around the fire trying to kill the bone-deep chill we had from being soaked for so long. Our grumblings eased and we actually started to have fun, getting to know each other, playing games, and comparing our day’s miseries.
Day two started at 6:30a. We were to complete the trek to Mount Toubkal’s summit in 9 hours, 4-5 up and then the return. One guy in our group refused to go. He waited for us at the refuge. I didn’t blame him. I (and a few others) didn’t really want to go, either, but we
allowed ourselves to be cajoled into it. Plus, I didn’t really come all that way to not try. I wasn’t happy, though. The weather got worse, not better. After a few hours, we were turned back by the snow, ice, and wind. Many were disappointed. I wasn’t. I was ready to turn around. In fact, a few of us turned back about an hour before the die-hards did. It was dangerous. My goals had been met: raised money, climbed a mountain, and had a new adventure. Reaching the top or not didn’t matter to me.
So we spent another night in the refuge and then headed back down the mountain, which wasn’t exactly a piece of cake either because it was slippery and muddy and as we got further down, we had to figure out how to cross the rivers that appeared out of nowhere from the melting ice and snow. But we stopped for a picnic lunch about 3/4 of the way down , which was pretty cool.
Our guides –Raheem, Omar, and Khalid– were beyond amazing. They safely –and with good humor– led 31 first-timers up and down a mountain in some of the harshest conditions the area has had in years. I love those guys.
Can something be awesome and horrible at the same time? Apparently… because that’s what this was for me. Not 50:50,though. I really hated the climbing part; it was much, much tougher than many of us imagined it would be. But it was more awesome than it was horrible.
And the rest of the trip was a blast. Three days taking in the culture of Marrakesh, an overnight in Madrid, then back to home-sweet-home. What a magnificent experience! My Spinsterlicious Life.
A couple of years ago, right around the time the latest U.S. Census (and other studies) demonstrated the rise in single people, there began a similar growth in articles and blog posts arguing both sides of the issue: why being single is the new normal (and is ok) AND why being single is still a pathetic place to be.
If you Google ‘why I’m not married’ and/or ‘why I’m still single’, well over 1 million results will pop up. Clearly, this is a hot topic.
I started my blog –The Spinsterlicious Life— and wrote my book to address the former. I don’t think that marriage is for everybody and I know that being single can be a darn good life. When I come across the many articles that take the opposite stance, I usually don’t care. To each his (her) own, really.
But today, I came across a really stupid article called Girls, 5 Reasons Why You’re Single and I thought “enough with this nonsense”. The writer of this article does not know why I’m single. Part of me thinks this article might be joke because it is so asinine (and not particularly well-written).
According to this article, two of the reasons I and millions of other women are still single are:
“You don’t take care of yourself.
Don’t expect someone to take care of you when you don’t even know how to look after your own self. There are certain physical standards that the (judgmental) society built. Like, you being sexy means you shouldn’t be fat, or being pretty is having a fair complexion. You can be sweet, smart, cool and funny little cupcake but quality men will not give a second glance at you if you don’t look alright. It’s not saying that you have to live up to other people’s expectations, but please love yourself first, before other people appreciate you.
You flirt too much
Whether you like it or not, the right kind of flirting is an essential skill but if you flirt like crazy, you may send the wrong signal and make you seem not-picky, which loses flirting’s efficiency. It also projects that you do the same thing with other men, which is of course, an off for everyone.”
I realize that by calling out this article, I’m giving the writer more attention. I’m just hoping that some single woman who isn’t feeling particularly good about herself today doesn’t stumble across this or similar articles and get her feelings hurt.
One of my favorite Maya Angelou quotes is “You alone are enough. You have nothing to prove to anybody.” It’s not particularly related to this topic…but then again, it is. Because it’s always true, no matter your situation.
A few years ago, a nice young man offered me his seat on a crowded New York City subway. In his offer, however, he called me “ma’am.” I was confused for a moment. I looked around to make sure he was in fact talking to me. I was surrounded by a bunch of school kids. He was talking to me.
Even though I was over 50, in my opinion I certainly wasn’t a ma’am. I was youthful—even fly—in my skinny jeans, T-shirt, and strappy sandals. I thought that maybe he was a foreigner who doesn’t quite have the American modes of greeting right. I asked him a question so I could hear him talk, and it was clear from his New York accent that he was right at home.
I was a bit annoyed. Not so annoyed that I refused the seat, but I was troubled that he thought I was of ma’am age. Maybe he was teasing me, so I looked back at him, waiting for a mischievous smile and wink. Nothing. Just a pleasant smile from a young man with good manners.
I didn’t want to be addressed as ma’am. Miss would do just fine. Ma’am is my mother. Ma’am is a lady of 50 years or older, which technically I was, but I had a much fresher attitude . . . or so I thought.
When I think about that episode now, I laugh. Since then I have embraced my ma’amhood! Fast forward to a few months ago, when another nice young man called me ma’am and offered to get a flower pot off the shelf at Home Depot and even carry it to the checkout register for me. (And no, he didn’t work there. ) I was happy to have him do it, even though the pot wasn’t that big and I certainly could have carried it myself.
I have come to understand that there are some perks associated with being a ma’am. Young(er) guys offer to help me with all kinds of stuff that I don’t want to do anyway (putting air in my car tires, carrying heavy stuff, hooking up my DVD to my new TV, even though that’s not supposed to be part of the cable guy’s offering). They’re not just doing this because I’m a woman, they’re doing it because I’m an older woman—a ma’am. I know because these kinds of offers have begun to increase.
One of my favorite parts of being ma’am, though, is that it allows me to share my opinion in ways that I couldn’t before. Everybody’s familiar with the stereotype of the older woman who is well-meaning but a bit of a busybody. I’m not a busybody, but I do usually have an opinion. Over the years, I’ve learned—much to my disappointment—that everyone isn’t interested in my opinion. But I think I’m getting a little bit of a pass now, because people are more polite to ma’ams and less likely to take offense.
Giving unsolicited advice can be tricky because it’s not always wanted. I was able to tell the guy who was doing some work on my house—whom I don’t know that well—that he needed to change the profile picture on his business’s website to one that was more professional. He was a little surprised at first, but I noticed later that he did follow my suggestion. There’s a young woman I often see in the elevator in the building I work in. She seems bright and eager, but she dresses as if she’s going to the club instead of work. I suspected this may be holding her back. So one morning I told her that. Let’s just say she didn’t seem exactly happy to hear this from me. I didn’t care. I felt like the wise older woman helping guide a bright young thing. And I noticed a few weeks later that she had on a blazer over her short dress.
I sometimes use being called ma’am as a ticket to an easier life. Whenever someone calls me ma’am, I assume there’s a shift in whatever paradigm ordinarily exists in the situation. The cop who pulled me over for speeding let me go with a warning and “be careful, ma’am” when I told him I was hurrying home because I didn’t like being out so late.
In our culture, the young(ish) feel benevolent toward older people, so they often give us a pass in ways they may not for someone young. And I love it.
Except on a date. You can’t call me ma’am if we’re on a date. I was having dinner with a much too young man who called me ma’am, and it was clear to me at that point that this would be our last encounter.
A version of this post can also be found at Women’s Voices for Change.
“You are so smart not to have gotten married.” These are the words I heard from a dear long-time married-with-children friend. Her voice was strong and she sounded resolute; her husband had gotten on her very last nerve. She finished her comment with “and if you blog about it, you can use my real name. I don’t give a *****!”
Well, I am blogging about it, but will refrain from using her name; no real reason to, and I wouldn’t want it to embarrass either of us if in the future we regretted it. Plus, I’m not so sure she really means what she said, though I know she really meant it at that moment.
X and I have been friends for 25 years or so. We have so much in common, though we couldn’t be more different on the subject of marriage. Marriage was always important to her, but not me. In fact, sort of like that Princeton Mom, she believes young women should lock down a life-mate sooner rather than later…like in college. I hate that idea.
Over the years, we’ve shared intimately the ups and downs of the life paths we’ve chosen: she mostly happily married and me mostly happily not married. Neither of us wants the other’s life.
But she’s always complained about her life way more than I do. I’ve never been quite sure how much she means it (or is she just easy to complain), but I do know that her life is waaayy more complicated than mine. She’s gotta manage the household and the lives of her husband, two kids, and a dog…and there’s a lot that goes with that. I manage me and the dog. Much simpler, and not that much goes wrong.
So, back to her “you’re so smart not to have gotten married” comment. I felt for her at that moment but also kinda chuckled to myself. Over the 20+ years she’s been married, she’s been known to profess strong sentiments, sometimes about the kids but usually about the husband. And I chuckled because, perhaps not surprisingly, there’s also the other side where she professes how she can’t imagine her life any other way. She’s never really used those words but I know it to be true.
Over the years, on a regular basis, I have heard from her:
– “I hate that MF.”
– “He’s so sweet, guess what he did.”
– “I’m so glad he’s out. It’s so nice when it’s just me and the kids.”
– “He’s one of the good ones.”
– “Seriously. I’m leaving. I just can’t take him anymore.”
– “We had so much fun last night.”
– “Seriously. I hate him”.
And on and on. I guess she’s probably not that different from most married women…although maybe just a little more honest. I think that’s what marriage is like, isn’t it? It’s complicated. I don’t like complicated stuff. And I do feel smart for knowing that marriage probably wasn’t for me…because it’s not for everybody.
Even though I know X is really pissed at him right now, I give her a month or two before she’s all googly-eyed about him again. And that’s how it should be, if she’s going to stay.
(This post is sponsored by Oxytrol and BlogHer)
I love to travel. I want to go everywhere and I pretty much can because, as a single woman with no kids, my time and my money are my own and I get to spend both however I want. So traveling is what I do.
But I’m a low-key kind of traveler. I love to spend my vacations sleeping in until mid-morning, then walking the streets of whatever country I’m in, drinking in a café (or equivalent), enjoying whatever the locals drink, eating what they eat, and shopping for something representative of their culture.
So imagine my surprise when I signed up to join a bunch of coworkers on a trip to Morocco to hike the High Atlas mountains. I’ve never said to myself “Gee, someday I’d like to be on top of a mountain”…and, yet, in September that’s exactly where I’ll be!
Nobody who knows me is surprised that I’m going to Morocco. Everybody who knows me is surprised that I’ll be trekking through mountains. That typically is not my kind of thing.
And I am super-excited. I don’t consciously know what made me jump at this opportunity but I am a big believer that we…well, I…must continue to stretch, grow, try new things, do something that scares me a little bit. And this is it.
I’m in good enough shape to walk around anywhere, but being fit enough to trek for 6-8 hours a day every day for a week at a high altitude is a different kind of thing. So I’ve started training. I hate training. It’s not interesting or fun, but it’s what I need to do to make sure I can enjoy this trip in all its glory (and that the rest of the team doesn’t vote to leave me on the side of a mountain because I can’t keep up).
I never want to be in a rut and I’m always looking for a new way to celebrate my life and challenge myself. This time when I’m eating and drinking among the locals, it’ll be in mountain village with the Berbers who live there. And I can’t wait!
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