First Person Singular by Wendy Braitman

Aim High and They Just Might Name a Comet After You

My friend and artistic advisor, Miguel, who regularly visits this site, suggested I post something more upbeat. Maybe he’s right. Since returning from Colorado, I’ve been in heavy lifting mode, trying to reshape my romantic disappointment into a learning experience. Enough of that. Time to lighten up.

Though probably not the best way to realize this goal, yesterday, I decided to go to an early morning screening of The Hurt Locker, about a group of soldiers who defuse bombs during the Iraq war. Directed by Kathryn Bigelow, it’s a compelling and tense film, the best I’ve seen this year, but not exactly a mood elevator.

It’s good that I also found my way to Maria Mitchell, who was born 191 years ago on August 1, and  is America’s first noted woman astronomer. Mitchell was encouraged by her father at an early age to study math and science. In 1847, peering through a telescope on the roof of a bank where he worked as a cashier, she noticed an object in the night’s sky that didn’t appear in her charts. It was a comet, and her discovery brought international fame and a big career. Mitchell became Professor of Astronomy at the newly-formed Vassar College, she was the first woman elected to the American Academy of Arts and Sciences, and helped found the American Association for the Advancement of Women. (Look for her in my Single Women’s Hall of Fame.) The comet, C/ 1847 T1, is named “Miss Mitchell.”

I’m glad to be on the upswing.

Disappointed? What Else is New?

After returning from Colorado with a tweaked back and another tale of unfulfilled romance, I transitioned through the usual stages of grief, from “what’s wrong with me,” to “why not ME.” There was a time I would have lingered much longer in each phase. Now I move right through them. And for that, I thank my mother.   Continue reading »

Good Enough to Eat

I’m enjoying the pleasures of summer. More tomorrow. (Photograph of popsicle by Tom Schierlitz)

Is It Possible To Be Single and Healthy?

I am robustly healthy. Maybe it’s genetics. Maybe it’s ballet class. Maybe it’s never having to pick up someone else’s towel from the bathroom floor.  A few days ago, I read about yet another study that implies marriage is the key to better health, and I started to wonder if an unforeseen illness was lurking around the corner. It’s enough to make you sick.

Please read Bella DePaulo’s insightful post in Psychology Today, debunking these kinds of studies. It will be good for your health.

How Gratitude Ruined My Pity Party

I’ve been trying to feel sorry for myself since returning from Colorado. The reason is obvious. I went to the Rockies in search of true love, but I did not find a willing partner. As the days go by without a word from him, I’m flooded with the noisy chatter that usually follows my romantic mishaps. If only I were…. (feel free to fill in the blank here, e.g. prettier, sexier, taller, meaner.) In any case, I’m disappointed AGAIN. Could there be a better reason to sulk in the corner?

Continue reading »

The Unexpected Spinster

At first, when I decided to write out loud about the ups and downs of unmarried life, I wanted to call it, “The Unexpected Spinster.” Unexpected as in, I was a popular girl in school with the usual amount of dates and boyfriends, and couldn’t pinpoint the moment that I segued into a perennial dater, who could never find the right man. Almost everyone married in my family and stayed married – brother, parents, grandparents and great-grandparents. Exploring how I became the odd woman out had a ring of destiny.

Continue reading »

Grace While Falling

Zelda Fitzgerald

Moving abruptly from 10,000 feet to sea level can be risky. So can the transition from days of constant male companionship to the return of alone time. Apart from a turbulent ride on a small, noisy airplane, I shifted from coupling in the Rocky Mountains to being once again single in L.A. (yes, definitely still single) without entirely losing my footing. (Though my back did go out.)  I’m sad, but steady. An enthusiastic and kissable dog at the front door really helps.

Why is romance so hard?

Today is the birthday of Zelda Fitzgerald, the wife of F. Scott, and together they formed a legendary romantic couple. They met at a country club dance in 1918, and after their first date, she wrote, “…It was a radiant night, a night of soft conspiracy and the trees agreed that it was all going to be for the best.” Their courtship and marriage was marked by ecstasy and tragedy. My story is much quieter.

Watch for it.

Rocky Mountain High

I’m leaving for a few days for a romantic adventure at 10,000 ft.  If the news is good, you will not hear from me, at least not in real time.

Check back for the report.

Respite by Jane Hirshfield

Day after quiet day passes.
I speak to no one besides the dog.
To her,
I murmur much I would not otherwise say.

We make plans
then break them on a moment’s whim.
She agrees;
though sometimes bringing
to my attention a small blue ball.

Passing the fig tree
I see it is
suddenly huge with green fruit,
which may ripen or not.

Near the gate,
I stop to watch
the sugar ants climb the top bar
and cross at the latch,
as they have now in summer for years.

In this way I study my life.
It is,
I think today,
like a dusty glass vase.

A little water,
a few flowers would be good,
I think;
but do nothing. Love is far away.
Incomprehensible sunlight falls on my hand.

“Respite” by Jane Hirshfield, from The Lives of the Heart,1997.

The Meaning of Life

Yesterday on a perfect summer’s evening, I leashed up my dog, Rose, for a walk to the park. As I was sprinting out the door, I ran into my next door neighbor, a first time Dad, as of a few days ago. He’s quiet, and we generally don’t chat much, we mostly nod in passing, but this was a special occasion. I asked how his wife and boy were doing, expecting him to be overwhelmed with the chaos of a newborn. He responded calmly (and he’s Austrian, so somewhat formally), “Very well. It couldn’t be better.” And he continued, with a reverential tone, “I feel complete. There was something missing in my life, but now with my son, I feel whole.” I believed him. I could see it on his face, which was uncharacteristically serene, the furrows of his brow were smooth, like the skin on a baby.

For a few moments, I stood in front of my house in awe. And then, envy. Was I less complete for never having children?  Was I missing an essential something?

This was more than I could bear to contemplate on a balmy summer night, and I went on my way to romp with Rose in the park.