By Lisa Wilcox
Staff Writer
Ahhh, February, the month known for the celebration of love with the arrival of St. Valentine’s Day. Or, for some of us, it’s the month that we get our sad, single noses rubbed in a red, heart-shaped Whitman’s sampler like an un-housebroken puppy.
Card and candy companies start their Valentine’s Day campaign at exactly 12:01 a.m. on December 26. Instantly, card displays shed the green of Christmas and become all red and lace. Peanut butter and
chocolate Christmas trees morph into hearts; big, fluffy stuffed animals displaying messages that say things like “I Woof You” and “Bee Mine” kick Nutcracker figurines and snowmen off the shelves, clearing out the paraphernalia of one over-commercialized holiday for another.
No, I am not going to try to sugar-coat the yearly agony of Valentine’s Day for those of us who are not attached, because, truth is, being in your 40s and single can outright stink.
I look down at my left ring finger and think about how fabulous it would be to have an obscenely huge diamond to cover that ugly freckle. New Year’s Eve just passed and I realized this year that my lifelong standing date for the night, Dick Clark, is dead. May you rest in peace, Dick. So I went to bed at 9:30, and was awoken at the beginning of the New Year by a phone call from my sister, who is 14 years my senior, married, and still up at midnight. Seriously. I took the time to post a “Wishing you all a happy New Year” message on Facebook and then promptly fell back into bed with one cat on my shoulder and the other with its paw in my hair. Yes, that’s right, I am 40-something, single and have cats. I’ll let you go ahead and insert your own crazy cat lady joke here.
I have to say, however, the worst part about being single at this particular juncture in life is other people’s reaction when they find out the earth-shattering news. When my marital status is discovered, most people look at me like they just found out I have exactly 24 minutes to live.
It’s not any different with my friends, of whom I have plenty and am thankful for every one. They are all great and married, of course. And they all basically talk to me like I’ve suffered a traumatic head injury.
“Dinner is at 6,” they will say, a little too slowly and loudly, “and, yes, our spouses will … be … there.”
They will wait a second, release an audible exhale of breath, then say, “Is that OK?”
And how, exactly, am I supposed to answer that? What if I tell them that, no, I would prefer they kick their better halves out of the house because ol’ Single Pants is coming over and doesn’t want to feel uncomfortable? Would they actually do it?
I do not hold my friends’ matrimonial bliss against them. And I like the majority of their spouses. I have never threatened a civil suit against any of them for making me feel like a social leper because they are married and I am not. The thought has never crossed my mind. Until now. Hmmm.
Now what some consider peculiar and hard to believe is the fact that I am basically OK with being alone. I really do not mind coming home at night to an empty house — well, almost empty, let’s not forget the cats. I don’t freak out at the thought of doing things alone. I will go out to eat alone, go to social events alone and have traveled alone.
Just this past summer I went to Burger Boy to grab some dinner … alone. I got my food to go, but decided it was such a nice evening that I was just going to sit on their deck and eat … alone. About halfway through my delicious hamburger, my sister called, which she does a lot.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Eating at Burger Boy,” I told her.
“Oh? Who are you with?
“No one.”
“What do you mean no one?”
“I mean that unless you count the mosquito buzzing around my head, there is no other living creature in my presence.”
“Well, where are your friends? What are they doing?”
“Umm, I don’t know.”
“Didn’t you call anyone to go eat with you?”
“No.”
“You just went to dinner alone?”
“Look, I didn’t hop a jet to New York City to eat at Tavern on the Green by myself. I’m just on the deck at Burger Boy.”
“That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Is it really? Sadder than those ASPCA commercials with the dogs and cats sitting alone in their own filth? Because those are pretty sad.”
She had to think about that for a moment.
“No, not that sad,” she finally replied.
Thank God.
And that brings me to my sister. My wonderfully loving and overprotective sister. She is forever telling me that I am too picky and that is why I am still single. And I think she honestly believes that, bless her heart. Truth is, I don’t have prospects beating down my door. I’m not exactly a man magnet. But, yes, I can be a little picky. And why wouldn’t I be? I do not need to bring someone into my life to make me miserable. I can master that all on my own, thank you very much.
I don’t want to leave the impression that I’m Greta Garbo and just want to be alone, because that’s not true. I would love to have Mr. Fantastic wander into my life. But, let’s face it, at this age, it’s easier to find a Kardashian with an actual job than it is to find a single man who doesn’t have a criminal record or more baggage than the lost and found area at LaGuardia.
And I guess I really don’t put a lot of effort into finding him. I did try the whole Internet thing for a while, but that was about as successful as New Coke was in the ‘80s. The last straw was taking 45 minutes to fill out one of those dating-site surveys, only to be told, “Sorry, we don’t have any matches for you.” So there you have it. It’s official. I am unmatchable.com.
I guess maybe I‘ve strayed from my original point: Valentine’s Day. The relationships I have had have never lasted through Valentine’s Day, so, yes, I am the female equivalent of Charlie Brown, minus the bald head and sweater. But, unlike good old Chuck, I have come to terms with the wretched holiday over the years. I no longer view it as a version of “The Lottery,” with me surrounded by married villagers carrying stones. I choose to use it to celebrate not just romantic love, but love overall, which I am fortunate enough to have quite the abundance of in my life.
Being 40-something and single, with or without cats, has a social stigma that I wish I could change. I don’t feel like my situation is the Greek tragedy others think it is. I have a great life that I enjoy thoroughly, sometimes in the company of others; sometimes alone. Do I wish I had someone to share it with? You bet I do. But whether I find Mr. Fantastic or don’t, my plan is to keep on with the keeping on. I will survive all of the pangs of being single and over 40 … and then 50 and 60 and so on. Because, really, it’s not as bad as all the married folk seem to think it is. Sure, a Valentine-less Valentine’s Day stings a little, but not as much as that “Bee Mine” stuffed animal.
