All The Single Ladies, All The Single Ladies


(There are no pics. This is a boring rant. Just letting you know so you can skip its arse cos I’m nice like that)

I am turning 34 in a little over a month: FACT. I’m dealing with it, so should you. Sometimes (but not usually) I feel like I am a walking cliche that just stepped out of Mia F***man’s weekly dose of fuckball nonsense column.

Sometimes I think about uni days or stuff what I did in my early 20s and they don’t seem that long ago. Sure, I’m (probably) a much better, well-rounded (yet skinnier) and richer (definitely) version of myself but I don’t feel that divorced from being single, living alone, going out and getting drunk as maybe other people my age (probably because I still do all of the above but can afford better booze and a taxi home).

Maybe it’s because I’ve never really grown up – if growing up means getting buying a house togerther and having joint bank accounts and getting married and having kids – all of which fill me with terror. Although sometimes those things seem quite nice and interesting and logical and ALL I EVER WANTED when I’m alone with a bottle of Merlot, bawling at the unfairness of it all (which is rare).

Who can say?

I’m not unhappy by any means. I’m just confused between what I am doing, what I want, what I should want and what I will regret when I am old and infertile and lonely and single and lying on the couch drinking a bottle of port on Xmas day on my own wondering where it all went wrong. Perhaps I’m not trying hard enough to get All The Things I’m supposed to do and want. Maybe I don’t want them enough. Maybe I’m just lazy. Maybe I’m supposed to die alone surrounded by cats who will eat my rotting corpse.

Once again. Who can say?

Perhaps I like my life to be simple. Here’s the things that were good/bad about today:

Good: I started significant work on two long feature pieces for work which make me happy

Bad: There is a ladder in my new tights

Good: I snagged a pic/interview that seemed elusive

Bad: I have no reverse cycle air-con in my new flat and I’m a bit cold

Good: I had drinks with Kato

Bad: Instead of going to Pilates

Of course there are much worse days that involve people dying, personal crises, the cat getting sick, me freaking out over meds, stuff, things, whatevs. But as much as I would like to imagine myself married, in a nice house, with a husband and some sort of child I made, I really kind of can’t. This comes back to the whole “is this what I want or is this what LIFE and PEOPLE are telling me I should want” kinda thing.

My mother, god bless, her finally, finally (and I can’t believe it took this long) pulled out the “you’re getting on in years and if you want a husband/child/all that stuff you’d better stop fucking around” thing on me the other night on the phone. If I wasn’t half a bottle into a nice Sauv Blanc I would probably have had a reasonable conversation with her about it. Or hung up. Or something. AS it was, I reckon I whined a lot and made little sense and pointed out my sister (32) was in no danger of achieving the above things soon either which I think made her even madder at me. I can’t remember. I’m just relieved that unlike some of my friends’ experiences with their mothers, it’s taken her until I’m knocking on the door of 34 to actually pull me up on it.

But the “stop doing what you are doing and do something different” advice isn’t really sticking so much. Sorry Mum.

So I’m the cliched 30-something woman who has a cat, has a good job, has her own car and property (actually x2 but I’m fucking poor as thanks to this) not bad looking, drinks on her own (excpet wait, I’ve not been doing that much recently, you know, yoga and soup and shit, which is much more boring but better for you) etc etc.

But I don’t want to be a cliche. I don’t want to worry that people feel sorry for me and that I’ll never meet The One and have babies and be a “productive” member of society. Most of the time I Simply Do Not Give A Shit. The things that have been promised to me by magazines, TV shows, other people; I accept they have not worked out for me as yet, or may not ever (I lied, I’m just not sure and sometimes wonder what is fucking Wrong With Me that I don’t have the things we are all supposed to want). I just fucking HATE this Sword of Damocles that is wielded over my head telling me if I don’t couple up and get up the duff soon then I’m no use to anyone.

All I want, really, is someone to cuddle with on the couch, someone to have sex with, someone to be nice to me and tell me I look pretty (but only when I have tried, otherwise that’s a bit creepy) occasionally someone to make dinner for me when I’m a bit stressed and tired, someone to share bills with and buy cool things for the house and go on cool holidays with and who gets on with my parents and friends. I do not even wish them to be there all the time. In fact if they were not, that might be a bit Awesome. Unless I had a screaming child on breast in which case Where The Fuck Do You Think You Are Going?

In conclusion, this is merely a rant, another shout into the darkness with little hope of a response. With more questions than answers. God I hate reading these things on other people’s blogs. You need a medal if you’ve gotten this far. One I shall make with brightly coloured paper and glue and sticky back plastic and a safety pin. Honest, I will. Just let me know. I’ve got time, clearly, without house/husband/baby etc.

Although to be fair to me (and others) I’m not that increasingly irritating person who posts their child’s every bowl movement on Facebook as if anyone else gave a shit. If I ever do have children I’m not scared of the “baby brain” forgetting stuff and losing stuff and generally being a bit weird – that is to be expected. I’m scared of turning into a crazy person who sees the world through the prism of their darling, dribbling child and makes everyone else see it too. Because that is fucked.

PS: Nic and Naz; this is Not You. You are my parental role models and the only reason I’d still consider having kids if my ovaries don’t wither and die first, which, let’s face it, is likely.

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About ohhellwhatthehell

I like gin, mittens and otters, not necessarily in that order. Here's some stuff I felt like writing down when I'm not chained to a desk writing other things for a living. Please use caution when using this site; there may be sweary words, cute animals and general bullshit. Don't say I didn't fucking warn you.
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3 Responses to All The Single Ladies, All The Single Ladies

  1. flib says:

    erm… who the fecking bollocks knows what they’re doing at any particular point, if they may be a feeling-thinking person as opposed to the 5 year plan robots? the existential angsty pins in my eyes in the basement shite that you’re expressing (eloquently, by the way) is…i’m sorry to inform you…VERY NORMAL.

    possibly not the most helpful comment to post, but you’re not alone and you’re not unique… actually you are unique, but…yet to get comfortable with HOW you are.

    end. point.

  2. No-one feels sorry for you, why on earth would they?? Some people might pretend to, but those are the self same people that hate their own lives, and they can jog the fuck on and stop spreading the misery.

  3. Both valid points,.m’dears. These kind of posts only happen sometimes when I decide to skip pilates and drink my dinner instead. But in any case both writing “existential angsty pins in my eyes in the basement shite” (which is one of the most awesome turns of phrase I have heard) when I’m half cut and then reading the comments above make me feel much better. Hell, it’s alright to cut loose and have a massive whinge once in a while. If you’re really good I’ll put some more squirrel pictures up and maybe even the totally gross/weird/hilarious stuff my colleagues come out with on a daily basis. Loves xx

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