Saturday, February 11, 2006
SWFNBM
With my chest feeling as though an elephant was sitting on it, rivers of phlegm and mucus seeping from pores I didn't know existed, and a hacking cough worthy of life long 10 pack a day smoker, I railed against the gods for sending the infectious microcosms that were laying siege to my white blood count. But my useless invectives died on the dry air as quickly as they were uttered. My wan visage, looking every excruciating minute of its more than half-century existence, growled back at me in the mirror, a pathetic portrait of an ailing spinster. Oh hell, call a spade a spade. Old maid.
I padded to the kitchen with a roll of toilet paper under my arm - at the ready to mop up the fluids flowing and exploding out of my nostrils. I pulled back the tab on a can of tomato soup and as it jiggled and farted its way into the bowl I had a fevered fantasy of home-made tomato soup simmering on the stove top, lovingly stirred by a caring hand; me snuggled under a warm blanket, comforted by a sympathetic voice and lots of home-made tlc.
A sneeze broke my reverie. I tore off another 4 or 5 sheets of tissue, wiped my nose and shoved the bowl of gelatinous muck into the microwave. I managed to glue together a couple of pieces of bread with some slabs of cheese and brought the sandwich to crisp under the broiler in the oven. Blackened cheese sandwich with lukewarm tomato soup. Just the ticket.
Feeling sufficiently sorry for myself, I planted my ailing bones on the couch, my cats providing a proper amount of purrage while we learned of Oprah's latest mission then what not to wear and then the right utensil for turning an omelet. Cable tv is a sick single girl's best friend. I eventually drifted off into a robutussic coma.
I repeated this cycle for the next 3 or 4 days, the only benefit being the time off from work. The flow of fluid eventually waned, and my body dutifully began to respond to the commands my brain transmitted.
I tidied up the various litterings of the sick room and the failed attempts at comfort food in the kitchen. The clatter of the tomato soup cans in the trash bag only serving to remind me that when you're sick, it sucks to be single.
Single. Unmarried. Never-been-married. Spinster. Although it was pointed out to me recently that the term has a definition of "one who spins," I'm not able to ignore it's most common meaning. This is right out of an online dictionary:
While I concede the "unmarried woman part" and although I'm past the mid-century mark, I will, however, eschew the term "elderly." Revised, then, we have:
Old maid.
Back when I was a young unmarried woman, this wasn't exactly what I had envisioned for myself. Somewhere along the line, though, I managed to abandon the typical (for my era) young girl's quest for a husband, 2.3 kids, station wagon and a house in the suburbs. I could blame the Women's Liberation movement, however the movement's more tangible influences on me were manifested in the abandonment of my of bras and cabinet full of makeup rather than instilling in me a sense of independence and 'sisterhood.'
I've had a couple of relationships which danced on the edge of marriage, but for reasons I'll leave for future posts, I retreated back to singlehood. Over time, I became extremely picky. At least that's what 'd tell myself. Truth be told, I think that became a convenient excuse for not having to endure ending relationships anymore. Because I'd become very good at doing that. Again, I'll leave that analysis for a future post...
I'd even gotten to the point of being relatively happy with my singledom. I went from overly dependent to fiercely independent. In due time, I became my own best friend, honestly enjoying my solitude and learned how to take advantage of it.
But, of late, this spinsterhood, old maid-hood, singlehood has begun to weigh on me. My "elder years" not that far away in the future, I'm not so sure, now, that I want to get there by myself. And, currently, I seem to be wanting to share my experiences more. I'm good company, but I think I'm getting weary of it only being me. And my cats.
I've even caught myself on more than one occassion checking out the left hand of men I've met who seem even remotely interesting. The ring finger usually being occupied, I'm resigning myself to the reality that the "good ones" are already taken. Or gay.
But then there's the internet. Hoo boy. Think I'll save that discussion for a future post as well. Just the contemplation of the "D" word has me wanting to check the locks on the door, turn the phone off, hole up and retreat to the library of books on my bed-stand...
Where're my cats?
I padded to the kitchen with a roll of toilet paper under my arm - at the ready to mop up the fluids flowing and exploding out of my nostrils. I pulled back the tab on a can of tomato soup and as it jiggled and farted its way into the bowl I had a fevered fantasy of home-made tomato soup simmering on the stove top, lovingly stirred by a caring hand; me snuggled under a warm blanket, comforted by a sympathetic voice and lots of home-made tlc.
A sneeze broke my reverie. I tore off another 4 or 5 sheets of tissue, wiped my nose and shoved the bowl of gelatinous muck into the microwave. I managed to glue together a couple of pieces of bread with some slabs of cheese and brought the sandwich to crisp under the broiler in the oven. Blackened cheese sandwich with lukewarm tomato soup. Just the ticket.
Feeling sufficiently sorry for myself, I planted my ailing bones on the couch, my cats providing a proper amount of purrage while we learned of Oprah's latest mission then what not to wear and then the right utensil for turning an omelet. Cable tv is a sick single girl's best friend. I eventually drifted off into a robutussic coma.
I repeated this cycle for the next 3 or 4 days, the only benefit being the time off from work. The flow of fluid eventually waned, and my body dutifully began to respond to the commands my brain transmitted.
I tidied up the various litterings of the sick room and the failed attempts at comfort food in the kitchen. The clatter of the tomato soup cans in the trash bag only serving to remind me that when you're sick, it sucks to be single.
Single. Unmarried. Never-been-married. Spinster. Although it was pointed out to me recently that the term has a definition of "one who spins," I'm not able to ignore it's most common meaning. This is right out of an online dictionary:
spinster- an elderly unmarried woman
While I concede the "unmarried woman part" and although I'm past the mid-century mark, I will, however, eschew the term "elderly." Revised, then, we have:
spinster- an unmarried woman
Old maid.
Back when I was a young unmarried woman, this wasn't exactly what I had envisioned for myself. Somewhere along the line, though, I managed to abandon the typical (for my era) young girl's quest for a husband, 2.3 kids, station wagon and a house in the suburbs. I could blame the Women's Liberation movement, however the movement's more tangible influences on me were manifested in the abandonment of my of bras and cabinet full of makeup rather than instilling in me a sense of independence and 'sisterhood.'
I've had a couple of relationships which danced on the edge of marriage, but for reasons I'll leave for future posts, I retreated back to singlehood. Over time, I became extremely picky. At least that's what 'd tell myself. Truth be told, I think that became a convenient excuse for not having to endure ending relationships anymore. Because I'd become very good at doing that. Again, I'll leave that analysis for a future post...
I'd even gotten to the point of being relatively happy with my singledom. I went from overly dependent to fiercely independent. In due time, I became my own best friend, honestly enjoying my solitude and learned how to take advantage of it.
But, of late, this spinsterhood, old maid-hood, singlehood has begun to weigh on me. My "elder years" not that far away in the future, I'm not so sure, now, that I want to get there by myself. And, currently, I seem to be wanting to share my experiences more. I'm good company, but I think I'm getting weary of it only being me. And my cats.
I've even caught myself on more than one occassion checking out the left hand of men I've met who seem even remotely interesting. The ring finger usually being occupied, I'm resigning myself to the reality that the "good ones" are already taken. Or gay.
But then there's the internet. Hoo boy. Think I'll save that discussion for a future post as well. Just the contemplation of the "D" word has me wanting to check the locks on the door, turn the phone off, hole up and retreat to the library of books on my bed-stand...
Where're my cats?
Posted at 3:57 AM | |
