filed in Daily Life, Myths and stereotypes, Sex and Dating
Single Diaries
JAN. 23:
Felt like a spinster today. Took off my sun hat and caught a glimpse of my hair. Flat. The way I wear the hat, with its wide brim, pulled low over my face is in itself a little spinster-y, especially on a windy day, when I secure it with a cord braced tight against my chin. I’m sure no man walking by me in this getup, would consider asking me out on a date.
FEB. 11:
Unexpected blind date. I had a haircut scheduled earlier in the day, and as my newly clipped hair looks short, I considered changing the appointment. But altering your life for a man can be a slippery slope, and I decided to go ahead, as planned. I imagined this new man looking at my short hair for the first time, with no good will in place. Would he think I was too crisp, too boyish?
FEB. 11:
I read in Vogue that to choose short hair, you have to be confident. No curls to toss about flirtatiously, filling in the pauses. What I had planned to wear for my date would no longer work with my cropped hair, so I reached for my sexy heels, paired them with a flirty skirt and hoped that they would offset the look of an independent, eager, ambitious, never married woman. I pulled at my roots and clacked off into the night.
MARCH 12:
Jeff’s online profile read like husband material. I was eager to have sex, but I decided to take it slow. We waited four weeks. It wasn’t hardly worth it. Our encounter did bring one perk. I no longer had to say to myself, “it’s been six months, nine months, two years, since I’ve had sex.” I adjusted my “no sex” calendar back to zero, and wiped the spinster slate clean again.
MAY 8:
Just came back from the library where I went researching the spinster. Was it a Freudian slip that I neglected to bring my eyeglasses? The print in the Oxford Dictionary looked small and fuzzy, I could barely read a thing. I spotted a window with sunlight poring in and sat on the ledge holding the bulky dictionary practically pressed up against the pane, an arms length from my eyes, which I have to tell you was not an easy maneuver, so that I could read the definition of spinster. But did I really need a definition? There I was living it, huddled in a corner, squinting.
JULY 3:
Why is faulty vision a spinster thing? (Mothers beware! If your sixth grade daughter is struggling to read the eye chart, start arranging her marriage, now!) At first when I imagined the spinster’s face, I thought of Susan B. Anthony. I searched through photographs and realized she didn’t wear eyeglasses except as an older woman.
Why would a woman seem less sensual with eyeglasses on? When a leading lady wears a pair in the movies, we know the romantic hero will take them off (and pull the hair pins out) before sweeping her into his arms. In the 1953 comedy “How To Marry a Millionaire,” Marilyn Monroe plays a near-sighted woman desperate for a husband, who hides her glasses in her purse then stumbles into everything. (Could eyeglasses be a barrier to intimacy because they enable us to see too clearly?)
AUG. 27, 2003 TO PRESENT:
Even if it hardens the stereotype of a spouseless woman, I’ve decided to come clean. I sleep with my cat.
My relationship with Lily ambled along the first few years, as with many of the men I dated. I had to work hard for us to be intimate, which entailed scouring underneath the cars in the neighborhood, crawling on my belly risking filth to tempt her with treats, dragging her by the collar, and finally into bed. At first, the intimacy was erratic. To be honest, I gave more than I got. But it paid off. Now, Lily sprints to greet me as I drive up to the house. She purrs whenever I enter the room. I think she’s a happier cat for my effort, and others who know cats agree. Friends think I’m happier, too.
But I’m not confused into thinking that Lily’s my beloved. She’s just a cat.
APRIL 27:
I’m not good with make up. I’ve mastered only one look—a little brown pencil smushed on my eyelids, some black mascara and lipstick in the earth tones, and I’d been thinking that it would be nice to have another option. I asked my friend Gracie, the make-up artist for a glamorous movie star, if she could make me look glamorous too. (Gracie’s mother used to tell me, “You’d have more luck finding a husband if you wore a little make up.”)
We went to a high-end department store, where she urged me to buy Yves St. Laurent powder, Sisley foundation, peach bronzer from Chanel. The final bill was $600. Pennies really, if you think about all the decades that I never bought the stuff. At home, she applied the make up, then took it off, and insisted I practice so I would know the drill. I looked pretty good. Healthy, glowing, girlish. Now, a year later, I no longer remember where the blush goes.
OCT 21:
I’m having dinner with an old boyfriend who I haven’t seen in twenty years. He married shortly after our relationship ended. When he emailed a month ago, we filled each other in on the big stuff. Still married? Yes, it’s shaky. And, no, I never did.
I’ve already pictured what I’ll wear, the martini I’ll order, but I haven’t settled on an explanation for why I’m single. None of my excuses ring true. I’m fretting over constructing a feasible narrative. Yet is it possible we’ve arrived at the moment when no explanation is necessary?
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FIRST PERSON SINGULAR is a guide to surviving, thriving and sometimes just getting through a single day. Created by Wendy Braitman (more…)
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Wendy: This is such good stuff. I’ve been all over your site now. Still can’t subscribe though, for some reason. I’ll keep trying.
Oh, I love your graphic too.
I love this post, and your entire blog.
Wendy, you are marvelous. Blush,no blush you are a treasure
One of the better sites I have seen. I am looking for a group of women like myself. I am always asked why I never found anybody, and yet when I meet a man, I never quite measure up. The kiss off line is always along the lines of a job rejection.”You’re great, but I found somebody better. Good luck in your endeavors.” How am I supposed to feel confident when guys reject me? I feel as ugly as Alice from the Brady Bunch and Rosemarie from the Dick Van Dyke Show. I have overcome disabilities and found success as a writer, but nothing I do when it comes to men is ever good enough. I look at my old photos–I was (and still am) attractive–so there must be something scary in my DNA that I cannot fix that drives them away. Some platonic guy pals call it “Quirky” and men don’t marry “quirky” unless she looks like Demi Moore.
I am 40. I hate dating. I hate LA. I have not given up on me (still focused on my career), but I have given up on love and those stupid matchmaker web sites and people telling me I should settle and that beggers cannot be choosers. Even the fixer-up guys dumped me and made it as painful as possible.