Skinny Bits: The Single Edition
Thanks to @KiaJD, whom I consider my spirit animal and one of my favorite people on Twitter, I learned that this week was Unmarried and Single Americans Week. My first thought was Wow! We have a week!? Then I realized it was Friday and I’d missed the chance to celebrate.
I’ve decided then, to dedicate today’s Skinny Bits to random thoughts on single life.
I have a friend that a lot of my readers know as @BitchUJusMad (she has a hilarious blog about her life as a wife and stay at home mother www.bitchujusmad.com). While we’ve shared some common experiences in our past that give us a unique bond, we couldn’t be more opposite. She’s an Aries. I’m a Libra. We like each other but feel that our respective signs are best kept far away from each other. She’s a conservative. I’m a liberal. She believes in traditional gender roles, while said roles give me hives. And as previously stated, she is a 20something married stay-at-home mother of twins (her wedding was one of the more awesome moments of my summer) and I’m a childless, significant other-less working single gal. The moments we agree are monumental because they’re so few and far between.
The other night, she questioned where do “Independent bitches” (I tell myself she means this lovingly whenever I read it on my timeline) find their fulfillment. She recounted an evening where she made the twins’ favorite meal and was delighted when even her hubby noticed she’d done something new with the recipe. This, she said, made her feel purposeful and appreciated and she didn’t know how a paycheck or a fly pair of shoes could replace that feeling. “Success can’t warm your ice cold heart.”
I replied to her that I find my happiness in a quiet home. I love that feeling of sitting on my couch in my sweats after putting in my eight hours and knowing that I don’t have to do anything for anyone who isn’t named Robyn for the rest of the day. I also noted that I’m satisfied by my freedom. I can spend an hour G-chatting a male homey about life and the intricacies of Hov lyrics and the Giants pass rush and do so without explaining who I’m talking to or why I’m laughing so hard. Or I can shut everything off and not speak to anyone because I’m just not in the mood. And I don’t have to pick up any socks off my floor that don’t belong to me. (I have this thing about men and their footwear. Don’t ask.) I like payday because I like knowing that I can pay my bills. And every morning I wake up to my 880 sq ft on Cleveland’s West Side and smile at the thought that this is all mine.
I like quiet. I like my space. I like being in charge
unless I’m in bed or bent over some hard surface. These things don’t lend themselves to children or husbands.
Then, last night, my dear friend @MF_Greatest dropped an article from The Atlantic written by author of The Purity Myth, Jessica Valenti, called Not Wanting Kids is Entirely Normal. There was a passage that pinpointed my exact fears with marriage and motherhood:
The overwhelming sentiment, however was the feeling of a loss of self, the terrifying reality that their lives had been subsumed into the needs of their child. DS wrote, ‘I feel like I have completely lost any thing that was me. I never imagined having children and putting myself aside would make me feel this bad.’ The expectation of total motherhood is bad enough, having to live it out every day is soul crushing. Everything that made us an individual, that made us unique, no longer matters. It’s our role as a mother that defines us.
@MF_Greatest summed it up beautifully when she tweeted: “I just don’t want to be drained. Or drowned. And I’m not changing my last name.”
Because when you dedicate great periods of time to accepting and becoming yourself, you tend to feel a bit queasy when someone demands that you be and answer to something/someone else.
And I’m not at all sold that I’m supposed to be anyone’s “everything” or shouldering another person with the responsibility of being mine.
If I’m to lay myself bare and be completely honest: it does become disheartening to repeatedly hear that my desire to hold on to myself is emasculating and thus makes me unlovable.
But when presented with the option of being lonely versus being without myself?