Yet Another Single Gal

To say people teach us about ourselves is a bit cliche.  To say that everytime you point a finger at someone, three are pointing back at you is even more of a cliche.  Both cliches have become a part of our lexicon because they are laced with truth. 

For quite some time, I’ve felt a spiritual void.  I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but I knew that while I was a happy, well-adjusted woman who was, for the most part, content with her life, I also knew that I needed some sort of belief system on which to rely.  A set of principles which gave my life a sense of purpose that was larger than checking off a list of personal and professional goals.

I found such a system through a friend who introduced me to Nichiren Buddhism. I began practicing this faith about a month ago and as typical of a new convert, I have used almost every occasion I could to bore people with my new-found religion that is far BIGGER than religion. And far more practical and useful.

Since I am a new convert to Buddhism during the 21st century, much of my soap boxing has occured on Facebook, where all of life’s essential soap boxing  occurs.  As I read the writings of the “founder” of the Buddhist practice and the more recent writings of the current president, I posted particularly inspiring quotes to my Facebook status updates.

Almost immediately, the universe sent someone to teach me something.

This someone came in the form of a devout fundamentalist Christian whom I vaguely remembered from my childhood when I was a less than devout fundamentalist Christian.  Joseph had sat, relatively quiet, on my friend list for the last year or so, occasionally, leaving a comment on one of my pictures or responding to a post.  He was one of those Facebook “friends” who only gets added to your list because…well, there isn’t a good enough reason not to add him. He was nice to me when I was 10; yeah, I’ll accept his friend request.

Joseph found every opportunity to respond to any post about my faith with a fervent rebuttal from the Bible.  To my quote from The Basics of Buddhism, admonishing modern-day religions to move pass holding its followers in a “childlike state,” thus discouraging them from finding the courage and wisdom to make decisions that are best for the lives they choose to live, Joseph reminded me that “GOD does not need help.  HIS word is the law and we should therefore follow it.”

I ignored Joseph’s cyber  finger wagging.

When I posted one of the main tenets of Nichiren Buddhism: the essential state of this world is compassion so we, must, therefore, live our lives with the explicit purpose of ending all human suffering, Joseph took this time to remind: “GOD is love.  Alpha and Omega.  Only through HIS love can we accomplish anything.” (Joseph puts GOD’s name in caps an awful  lot; I think he does this to make a point.)

The friends who responded positively to my post ignored Joseph’s wagging finger.  So did I.

At first, I was not agitated by Joseph.  I was grateful for him.  I assumed he had been sent to teach me this lessson: You are on the right path.  With each display of Joseph’s inability to acknowledge that other faiths beside Christianity could be the “truth,” I became even more grateful that when I went searching for a spiritual center, I instinctively knew Christianity was not what I sought. Its teachings were not the source of solace and comfort that I was now finding in Buddhism.  Joseph reminded me of why I informally cut ties with the Christian church once I was able to verbalize a silent, inexplicable lack of belief in it.

Joseph didn’t become annoying until this past Friday.  When I updated my status to reflect my excitement about going to  a meeting of other practicing Buddhists later on that evening, Joseph responded exactly 7 minutes later to say: “Don’t forget tonight is the Sabbath.  When the sun sets, it is GOD’s time.”

I was on my way to defriending Joseph.  I sent him a private email first. In my email, I expressed happiness that he still believed so strongly in the Christian faith and I hoped it continued to bring him what he needed.  I made it clear that I found his constant proselytizing overbearing and self-righteous.  That I respected his and other Christians’ beliefs so I didn’t think it unreasonable to have mine respected as well. Joseph replied to my message by saying I could believe anything that I wanted, but that when JESUS returned, I and every other Christian and Buddhist would have to bow down to HIM.  “You remember HIS name, don’t you?  You know who HE is.” 

On Thursday, I had 256 Facebook friends; as of right now, I have 255.

My reaction to Joseph’s email surprised me.  I was vexed by it for most of the  day.  I found myself increasingly irritated by the tone in Joseph’s email and the implication that I could not escape judgment; that my decision to follow another religion was my attempt to exonerate myself from Jesus’s wrath.  “Geez…how do Christians manage to get anything done,” I simmered.  “Such self-righteous judgment must take a lot of energy.”

Although Joseph’s intolerant rants strengthened my belief  in Buddhist philosphy, I still could not get him off of my mind.  For a brief moment I wondered if I was obsessing over his rants because I really was afraid of “burning in an eternal bath of flames.”  I eased such unfounded fears by reminding myself that even when I was 10 and sat in the same church with Joseph, I did not accept this God as abusive husband model.  A God who “loves” you so much that he only punishes you when you  don’t do exactly as he says when he says to do it.  A God who dangles the  carrot of heaven in front of your nose, promising to reward you…but snatches the carrot away as the ultimate punishment if you fall out of line.

Midway into my mental Christianity-bashing, I realized I sounded a lot like Joseph.  To denigrate a faith which brought peace and happiness to worshippers who would once describe their lives as chaotic and miserable seemed terribly judgmental.  And intolerant.  What was really behind my severe irritation with Joseph?

My family.

As Christmas approaches, I am aware that I will go home to a family who, although they are slack ass Christians, will probably be suspicious and dismissive of this weird “religion” that has me chanting non-English phrases and blaspheming God by boldly claiming it is really I who has the power to shape my destiny; it is a power that lies inside of me, not outside in an authoritative figure.  I can not remember the last time any member of my family stepped inside a church or picked up a Bible, but I know enough about the dynamics of family and culture to know that religious faith is just as much an ingrained part of a family’s culture as holiday routines and yearly rituals.  Just as every member of the family makes an effort to travel back home to gather around Mama’s table on Dec. 25, we all make an effort to live a Christian life.  Just as we expect that everyone in the family will go to college, we expect that everyone in this family will vaguely believe in an after life spent in Heaven and will just as vaguely work on getting ourselves in those pearly gates.  To reject the religious teachings that generations of your family have accepted without question is to reject an essential part of the family itself.

What if my mother turns into Joseph?

And it is this question that I thank Joseph for forcing me to ask myself.  What if my mother wags her finger in my face, falling on her knees and praying to God to save me from my eternal punishment?  She is my mother; she will love me and won’t be so overbearing that I have to defriend her like I did Joseph.  However, there are crucial differences between the philosophy of Buddhism and the dogma of Christianity.  Although both religions serve the same purpose as all religions: to bring happiness to its followers, there are principles of Christianity that make it very difficult to acknowledge the underlying truth of Buddhism.  In some sense, it is almost impossible for any good Christian not to doom me to hell.

An acquaintance who is on the periphery of the periphery of my life dooming me to hell is laughable.  My mother dooming me to hell is not.

It is the thought of not being accepted by the people I love the most that frightens me.  If it had not been for Joseph, this fact would have been at the back of my consciousness and I would not have had this next week or two to chant and pray more fervently to give me the courage to think better of my family.  Thanks to Joseph, I have sought other Buddhists who were raised as Christians and shared my fears with them.  Thankfully, they confirmed that mothers don’t take it well; fathers are concerned, but once you assure them that it has brought peace and happiness to your life, they smile and ask you a few obligatory questions about the practice.  Siblings still simply ask you to borrow $50 when you “break the news” to them.

“Whatever you do,” one former Baptist who has been practicing Buddhism for almost 30 years told me.  “Don’t intellectualize it; speak from your heart.  Tell your family how this practice makes you feel.”  She reminded me that no matter how much a family wants you to do what they all are doing, they can not refute your choices when those choices bring you sincere happiness.

It’s a shame Joseph is no longer my facebook friend.  I need to thank him for solidifying my belief and being the catalyst for my decision to look within for the source of my irritation.  A Christian made me a better Buddhist.  Yes, the universe does work in mysterious ways.

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When I was in middle school, the girls in my 7th grade class routinely played this game, which by its mere premise, excluded my active participation.  The game did not have a clear system of scoring and did not exist on the requirement that someone “win” each round.  There was no victor because there were no timed rounds, no markers of when the participants had successfully reached the winning score.  The game would spring up during recess, on the bus ride home from school, at slumber parties, during rambling late night telephone conversations.  It never ended.  None of the 7th grade girls with whom I associated wanted it to end, either.  I was a nerd who learned early on that in order to survive in the world of “normal, acceptable” behavior, you had to fake enthusiasm in dull, pointless activities that had been deemed “fun” by your peers. So, I made no mention of my disinterest in this game that so many of my friends relished. While I had little to offer as a participant, I sort of sat back and cheered my team members on until someone gleefully handed me a bat and told me it was my turn.

This game was called, “Who I am Going to Marry and What My Wedding Day Will Be Like.”  Sometimes, the number and names of children that would come out of this marriage would also be shared and commentary on smarter selection of names offered.  Where you, your handsome husband and cute little kids would live periodically found its way into the game, also.  My friends were very specific about their choices in husband and all the amenities he would bring them.  Although much of their specificity was based on naive, adolescent fantasies of what marriage entailed, it was clear that the concept of womanhood without husband was foreign to them.  Foreign, and more critically…completely incomprehensible.

I went to a tiny religious school in New Orleans, Louisiana. For a long time, I assumed that the obsession  my childhood friends had with marriage had more to do with their being raised as good little Seventh Day Adventist girls in the south.  Good Seventh Day Adventist girls from the south married.  They had children.  They kept after their husbands and children when they misbehaved and/or broke any of the litany of rules one followed in order to consider herself a good Seventh Day Adventist girl.  Surely,  debating which Luther Vandross song would serenade you and your husband as you danced at your wedding reception was not something that girls in other regions did?

Chances are, if you are a woman reading this, you are all too familiar with the game I just described.  Your religious background and region of rearing bare no distinction on how the game was played and it does not have any reflection on how much fervor your peers (and perhaps, you) put into the elaborate fantasy of the blissful life you and your husband would create together.

As a woman who is no longer religious or living in the South, I find I am sometimes expected to fake enjoyment in the more mature version of the game my middle school friends played.  The “Who I am Going to Marry and What My Wedding Day Will Be Like” game has now morphed into “I Can’t Believe I am Still Single and Haven’t Found A Husband Yet” game. It springs up during dinner parties, phone conversations about unrelated topics and even during (seemingly) harmless Facebook posts.  I find myself less willing to play along now, though.  Mainly, I choose not to participate because the tone of the game has shifted considerably.  It is not so full of hopeful anticipation anymore.  It is much less fun and pleasant as I remember the 7th grade version.  I have also changed a bit in the decades since I was first introduced to this favorite female pasttime.  I now accept that I am a nerd and am probably judged as “weird” for not understanding or engaging in acceptable female behavior.  I feel much more comfortable now simply asking, “Why is having a husband of such great importance? Seriously, will the earth fall off its axis and you go careening into a black hole of lonely abyss if you don’t marry and have chidren?”

I understand the deep desire to be partnered.  Humans were made to love.  To give and receive romantic love is the most basic of needs.  Seeking out a mate when your heart yearns makes just as much sense to me as seeking out a lamb chop when your stomach churns.  However, I am left with nothing to contribute when women commiserate over being 30, 35, 40, 45 and “STILL single” (insert moan of despair here).  I have tried to muster up the energy it takes to fret over the latest dude who did not fit the “husband prototype” and work myself into a frenzy of when-will-he-come hysteria.  Much like beating myself up over not having toned biceps and a flat stomach, I just can’t find the motivation to add yet another pressure, yet another anxious inner monologue that will play itself in my head repeatedly.

I asked a friend once why some women do allow that monologue to replay in their heads. My friend, Jen, is upfront and unabashed in her fatigue with single life. (Direct quote: It sucks ass!) When I talked to her about how long she has been tired of being single, she gave me a brief timeline of her search for a serious boyfriend or husband. From the time she was in her 20s, Jen has been on the search for a mate.  In the middle of a casual conversation, Jen can magically find a way to mention how much she hates being single.  She has started off conversations with: “Girl, how you been?  Ya know, I am SO sick of being single.” I do not speak in hyperbole; a recent conversation with her began in just that manner.

Jen asserts that a husband will bring her not only love, but several other comforts that she does not enjoy as a woman living solo.  Marriage will help her with her current state of being broke.  It will cure her of recurring feelings of loneliness.  It will provide her with as much sex as she wants when she wants it.  Wearing a wedding band will finally prove to her and the world at large that yes, someone does indeed love her.  “The older you get,” Jen explained, “the more you want someone to take care of you.  To love you.  God did not make me to be alone.  He wants me to be married.”

Listening to Jen made me want to buy Marriage a drink.  Folks dump a lot of shit on its shoulders.  And for an institution that is struggling to simply still exist in today’s climate, the last thing Marriage needs is the expectation to fill voids, clean up credit reports, and guarantee free-flowing sex.  Marriage has a hard enough time simply keeping people together; how can it take on all this other stuff Jen wants?

Another friend, Barbara, who is less annoyed with single life than Jen, has shared her legitimate complaints with being single several times, too.  “You just deal with a lot of wasted time and all around bull shit the longer you are single.”  She speaks of divine destiny as well.  “I really do believe God meant for me to have a family.”  She does not hate being single, but is clear that it is a state from which she must (and hopefully will) rid herself.  I admitted to Barbara that while I would like to have a man whom I completely adore in my life, I didn’t feel that such a love neccesarily had to lead to marriage.  She said something that stayed with me: “I don’t judge any woman who wants that kind of life.  But, I want the real thing.”

The real thing?  I thought that was what I wanted, too.  Is the litmus test for “the real thing” a marriage license?

When I talk to women who are marriage minded, I get the impression that while many don’t lie awake at night clinging to their pillow as they bemoan the absence of “The One,” many of them do have a very specific way of looking at their status of being single.  It is seen as some sort of illness.  An unpleasant, inconvienient nasty cough for some of us.  A cancerous tumor that threatens our life for others.  Whether it is a minor inconvenience or a major malady, women like Jen and Barbara are clear that they need to rid themselves of this illness.  The cure for them is marriage.  And nothing else.

And I watch these women work diligently to cure themselves.  They feverishly “work on” relationships with men whose greatest gift to them would be to break things off.  And when these men do grant them this blessing, they worry and fret about how much further this sets them back.  They were so close to being able to say, “Someone really does love me enough to cure me of this disease!”  I listen to them as they plan and plot, trying to figure out what they are doing wrong.  What could possibly be wrong with them since they are no closer to a husband than they were when they started this hunt back in college.  I watch and I listen and I wonder: Why aren’t they treating the real illness?  If fear of being alone is really what’s driving the hunt for a husband, why aren’t they addressing that?  Is the issue really a desire to share your life with someone or is it really, the desire to be vindicated?  To not be the only one at an event who is unpartnered?  What magic transformation of their lives do these women believe marriage will bring?

Like Barbara, I do not judge women who actively seek marriage.  Ultimately, I wish the same for each and every woman: To live the life that she truly wants.  If a husband is what Jen and Barbara truly want, my prayers to the Universe will whisper that request on their behalf.  I do wonder, though, if thier insistence that marriage is the divine edict for their lives only sets them up for a fall.  The reality is that more than a few women have planned to be married and never found themselves in the ideal situation to do so.  It seems that these women’s lives have not been affected too horribly by this ailment called “single woman.” 

Truly, what if they never find the cure?  What if Jen and Barbara leave this Earth never having said I do?  If that is their only regret, is it just me, or have both women lived a ridiculously charmed life?

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A strange phenomenon occurs whenever a group of single people in their 30s and 40s gather. If the gathering has any potential for socializing– a dinner party, an informal networking event or even a work-related meeting at a casual spot – the conversation turns to dating. It happens unintentionally. It can be triggered by any number of factors. I would imagine this diversion into the complications of dating in the 21st century happens in much the same way that partnered people who assemble for other purposes eventually end up swapping stories of crazy in-laws, challenging children and clueless companions who simultaneously make their lives more difficult and more manageable.

The discussions can get heated. I have come to realize that the main reason why they often get so intense and go well into the night is because there is often an inbalance of hormones at these gatherings. Usually the room in which the “the dating game” debate takes place is permeated with 83% of estrogen. The faint whiff of testosterone is often fading away into a mere memory by the time the debate has waged into its third or fourth round.

I’ve noticed recurring complaints at these impromptu town hall meetings.

Men: Women expect too damn much. They want the world and the blueprints for the galaxy you plan to build them by the third month of dating or they thrust an eye rolled “I can’t be wasting my time on you” right into the tenderest part of your heart, twist it around and sink it in deeper, just before strutting out the door.

Women: Men judge them too harshly. And on the wrong things. They are “blinded by the booty.” Particularly, in a city like New York where biscuit-needing models roam the city’s streets with their perfectly toned frames and freakishly flat stomachs as if their physical superiority is the norm. If a woman is smart, funny, strong, independent and even low maintenance, a man will STILL choose the pretty girl with the nice boobs who reads at a 7th grade level.

The topics sometimes change, but the respective complaints that the defense and the prosecution present…well, those remain stagnant for the most part.

Once, at a barbecue that was SUPPOSED to be a leisurely day of cueing, drinking and talking about nonsense, a Y chromosome picked a fight with the X chromosomes who for once, were too disinterested or too drunk to hurl “Why men act like they do” questions at the poor helpless Y chromosomes who stare ahead into nothingness like 8th graders being presented with a test they never knew they were going to have in a subject that had never made any sense to them.  His complaint: Women who base their decision to go out with a man again on how much money he spent on the first date.  “You should be going out with me because you dig me,” he asserted with such fervor it made me wonder just how recently some woman had strung him along just for a series of free meals.  “It shouldn’t matter if I spend money or not; you should accept the date because you are interested in me.”

An X-Chromosome told him he was out of his friggin’ mind if he really believed merely gracing a woman with his company for a few hours was enough to make said woman want more of his presence.  “I’m grown,” several women reminded the Y-chromosome.  “I am not in high school or college anymore.  Sitting on your futon and eating your leftovers while watching your favorite DVD is not cute.  Neither is it quant.  Take me to a movie.  Buy me a meal.  Or don’t call me.  Ever again.”

The Y-Chromosome grumbled.  Sought back up from his brethren.  His brethren recognized the abundance of estrogen in the backyard that afternoon as potential dates on whom they could spend money.  They looked on silently, allowing their short-sighted brother to continue hanging himself since he seemed hell bent on doing so, anyway.

Another time, I tagged along with a friend to have a few cocktails with her co-workers. Four women.  One guy.  The prosectuion presented its case: Working women have too much going on to worry about looking and behaving like the primitive male fantasy of women.  The lead attorney on the case was in the early stages of breaking up with a long term boyfriend and was ruminating on the daunting endeavor of “putting myself back out on the market.”  She was timidly knocking on  40’s door  and hadn’t put on a push up bra and a tastefully low cut blouse and sat across from a man in whom she was mildly interested in half a decade.  The idea of having to do it now irritated her. 

The defense spoke bluntly: “Here’s the deal: Whether you are a size 6 or a size 16.  If you are 23 or 43.  Fact is: you have to keep yourself up.  You have to look good, put together.  At least give us something to fantasize about when we first start going out.”  The defense went on to explain that whether or not women liked it, a man’s eyes didn’t linger on a woman at first meeting because she could engage in a great conversation or because he could envision her reading to their kids every night.  His interest was piqued by HOW SHE LOOKED.   How attracitve he found her.  And it was an attraction that had nothing to do with her charm, her intelligence, her open heartedness and all that other deep stuff women factored into whether or not they found a  man attractive.

The X-chromosomes were not happy.  And unlike the Y-chromosomes from the barbecue, they joined forces even before the defense attorney had a chance to present his closing argument.  Phrases such as sexist pig, think with the right head, men are dumb/simple/a pain in the ass were thrown around both playfully and with a little bit of malice.

After sitting through dozens of these town halls, I have ascertained that there is an undertone to these redundant complaints.  The beef that the Y-chromosome from the barbecue has with dating has little to do with women occasionally taking advantage of the expectation that he impress them with a date that shows off his financial success.  He fully expects to pay for her meal and movie ticket, can afford to pay and is eager to treat a woman to a nice evening out. The beef that the soon-to-be single woman has with dating isn’t about the expectation that women must use their outer beauty to obtain a man’s interest.  She has the beauty, anyway.  When and if she does put herself back on the market, she will have no problems catching the eyes of available men.

The real beef lies in what I once heard a man say when he complained that back when he was struggling financially, women didn’t give him the time of day.  They would tell him that they wanted a man who could bring something to the table and to give them a call when he was able to do so.  “I don’t think that’s fair,” he said.

God bless his delusional heart, I remember thinking.  He actually expects dating to be fair.

I think many singles expect the same thing. This illusion of a progressive, modern society where men and women are completely equal has led many of us to convince ourselves that what is expected of men and women in romantic encounters has also evolved with the times.  Unlike generations before us, we find it diffcult to accept that who we are, our wonderful uniqueness, is really not enough to get a mate.  That there are a host of biased judgments that a potential partner makes about us before he or she decides to date us, let alone commit to us in a meaningful way.  Men really want to believe that since women are now financially independent, we are not nearly as concerned with their ability to support and provide for us as women from previous generations.  She wants me just for me.  Women want to believe that how they look doesn’t matter.   That it is really our wit, our intellect, our vivacious personality that prompts men to ask for our phone number. These 21^st century men are different, we tell ourselves.  They want depth.  They want me just for me.   

Oh, if only it were that simple. 

There are some unfortunate truths about dating.  Truths that our parents and grandparents accepted without much thought.  Truths that ordered their lives and normally resulted in less town hall meetings about the unfairness of dating.  Perhaps they didn’t have to call these meetings like we do because they were too busy marrying; not dating.

Truth: If you are a heterosexual woman who seeks the company of a heterosexual male, it would benefit you to watch your weight.  It would benefit you to pay attention to your appearance when you leave the house.  While most men don’t expect you to have Tyra’s boobs and Halle’s face, they will base their decision to go out with you on how you look.  It is not fair.  It is truth.  An inconvenient one if you are a woman who is not naturally inclined to think about such frivolous matters as your hair, your dress size, make up and what not.  Here’s another truth: the woman who does devote some brain space to these silly matters will spend more Saturday nights in the company of hetereosexual males than you.  Not fair.  Just truth.

Truth: If you are male, your charm and “niceness” aren’t enough.  Yes, women want men who are kind.  They will give you their time and attention even if you are not making six figures.  But, simply being in your presence and basking in the glow of your “good man” status is not enough.  You will have to plan dates.  You will have to pay for them.  You will have to make effort.  She will take your decision to open up your wallet on a date as a sign that you are vested in her.  If you go the other way, so will she.  It is terribly unfair.  Particularly, if you are one of those nice, sensitive guys with so much to offer a woman.  The thing about truth is: While it does set you free, it is also indifferent to fairness.  This is inconvenient if you are a good guy who happens to be taking longer than most to live up to your potential.  Here’s some more truth: Until you live up to that potential, there is a good chance that you will be dateless most weekends.

No, dating is not fair.  One final truth: If dating were fair, the word lonely would not be in the dictionary.

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By the time she’s in her 30s, the average single gal has spent approximately 758 hours deeply engrossed in the complex, maze-like game of Deciphering the Y Chromosome.  A major stage at which this game starts (and often ends since it can easily encompass at least half of those 758 hours) is Figuring Out the Brain of the Y Chromosome.  We single gals embark on this journey of figuring out what the hell goes on in those brains of men over drinks at happy hour when we’ve just met a new one, curled up in the fetal position on living room floors after breaking up with one, and quite often we endeavor to Figure out the Brain of the Y Chromosome when we’re engaged in a conversation with the chromosome itself.

We know we shouldn’t.  To exert so much energy on a game that has been played by our mothers and grandmothers who have only been able to bestow this brilliant discovery on many of us: “Men are…not women. Good luck.”  But, we do anyhow.  We are strong, independent women; seeking out needless challenges that only promise to frustrate and exhaust us is just what we do.

Several days ago, I had dinner with two good Black men.  I’ve known these good Black men since we were teenagers and they were two good Black boys. One is married; the other is newly single after having been in a long term relationship that produced an adorable little girl.  Since both of these good Black men are my platonic friends, I thought it would be advantageous to play another round of Figuring Out the Y Chromosome with them.  Authors of dating self-help books continually suggest that women stop talking amongst themselves about what goes on in the heads of men and go right to the source.  What these relationship “experts” neglect to also mention is if a curious single gal wants an uncensored peek into the male brain, she should make it her goal to talk with a male with whom she is NOT having sex and with whom the chance of naked activities in the foreseeable future is very minimal.

Hence, my childhood friends: Roger and Greg.

According to Roger: “All women are crazy.  It is a matter of how crazy your woman is that determines whether or not you marry her.”  Roger has just completed his sixth year of marriage.  Apparently, Roger’s big brother has been married even longer than he has.  Roger credits his brother’s theory on the universal insanity of women for making it easier to argue with his wife, particularly when he’d like an argument to end in a concrete resolution.  

“See, it’s like when y’all say you want to deal with the problem, that’s not really true.  You really want to deal with how you feel about the problem AND the problem itself.”  Roger says after 6 years of marriage, he still has not figured out when his wife wants him to do either one.  When he tries to go right to addressing (and fixing) the problem, he is asked: “Can’t you just listen to me for once?”  When he spends the first few minutes of a conflict saying absolutely nothing, he is then in trouble for not doing anything to work on whatever the problem is.  (Sometimes, Roger is not sure what the argument itself is about or why his wife is displeased.)  According to Roger, this is quite stressful to men and further proves his brother’s theory about every woman firmly foot holding a spot on the continuum of crazy.

We exhaust men.  We have a lot of emotions and feelings and thoughts and needs swirling around all at once.  We can not turn off all of that complexity so they have to keep dealing with it.  Everyday.  

We can be tiring.

When I shared my suspicion that while men may not be as complex as women, they are in fact much more complicated than they admit, Greg was quick to jump in. “Yeah, those few times when we are complicated and emotionally complex it is when we’re trying to figure out what to say to y’all, how to say it and when to say it and keeping in mind how you will hear it, how you will feel about it and most of all, if what we say will make you happy with us.  Or at least, mildly pleased.  When we’re not doing all that…we’re simple creatures.”

So, apparently our insanity is the sole catalyst for men’s occasional descent into complexity.  

I want to stress that these two men with whom I had dinner are in fact, GOOD BLACK MEN.  That elusive category of male many women have been fooled into believing died off around 1983 or so.  Roger and Greg are not good black men merely because they have good jobs and ambitions and the restraint to not hit women when they are angered.  They are good men where it really matters.  Men who know right from wrong and govern their lives accordingly.  Men, who are flawed and no doubt have deserved the occasional shoe being thrown at their heads by the “crazy” women in their lives, but for the most part, honor and respect women.  Men who try to protect the women they love and raise their daughters with a strong sense of how they should be treated by the man they will eventually love after Daddy.

Even these type of men believe women have a screw (or two) missing?  Father, help us.

By the time we were wrapping up our meal, I was determined to make this round of Figuring Out The Male Brain result in a victory for me.  There have been so few over the years.  Since I do not see Roger and Greg very often, I wanted this dinner to be symbolic.  To represent the one time when I can truly tell my girlfriends I have gained some crucial insight into the Y chromosome that will unlock decades worth of confusion and mind-numbing misunderstandings.  

I wanted to know what was so difficult about having to deal with more than one emotion at once.  I explained to Roger that perhaps what causes his wife to get frustrated with his inability to know when to react with immediate action and when to switch gears and just listen is because she does it all the time, with little thought.  Her friends do it as well.  You need me to address this conflict while still acknowledging how upset/afraid/worried you are about the conflict?  Okay, done.  And if you don’t mind, while I’m doing that I’ll also call and reschedule my doctor’s appointment and lecture my kid about that D in Math, too.

It is second nature to us.  Being intuitive to a person’s needs and shape shifting to fit those needs before changing gears and dealing with that person in a different way.  Isn’t it just a matter of multi-tasking?  

“Why can’t you people just get better at multi tasking?”  Isn’t there one of those “dummy” books for this significant skill?

The good Black men looked at each other and then me.  I waited for just one little secret piece to be revealed.  Some insight that would declare victory.

“Look,” Greg said.  “We just don’t do it that well.  One thing at a time, please.  That’s all we ask.”

Roger smiled in agreement.

So, after another energizing round of Figuring Out the Y Chromosome, I have this to report:

Men are…not women.  Good luck!

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When I was 20 years old, I went on a date with a married man.  Breaking bread with an adulterer was involuntary on my part.  When you’re 20, you do not automatically look at a man’s ring finger when he introduces himself to you.  You figure it is only “odd” that he doesn’t offer you his home phone number (particularly, in the mid-90’s when a home phone line was more than something you only needed for an internet connection).  When a 20 year old woman accepts a date from a man a bit older than she, it never occurs to her that there is something amiss when he asks her out after two quick phone calls that took place after midnight and lasted about 3 minutes and 26 seconds each.  She puts on a nice pair of pumps and a cute dress.  She goes on the date.

I remember that date well.  Midway through my scrumptious turtle soup, this odd stranger changed the tone of our light banter by casually announcing: “I’m married; is that gonna bother you?” I distinctly recall thinking, Huh?  Is this how men go about having affairs? They just announce they are whoring around and then the infidelity commences?  How so unromantic.  Prior to this dinner, I held on to the rather quaint image of how affairs happen.  Man and Woman spot each other in the office (or at church) and exchange a pointed “look.”  One (or both) is married so they quickly turn their eyes away.  Perhaps redden a bit.  Man and Woman spend several months (or years) avoiding one another, occasionally coming into contact and reddening some more.  They slip up and agree to serve together on the organizational committee for the company picnic (or annual tent revival).  As they harmlessly chit chat while planning, they realize that their passion is unbridled.  Although they both fight the urges, they end up ravishing one another in the back pew after prayer meeting (or on the copy machine after everyone’s gone to happy hour).  I did not condone the Man and Woman’s immoral behavior, but this image made adultery more comprehensible to me.  In my mind, married folks did not go out looking to betray their spouses.  Affairs happened when people were not paying attention; when they couldn’t avoid it.

The married man who sat across the table from me 14 years ago truly stunned me.  I knew I would end up storming out of the restaurant (after I finished my soup, of course).  But, I was so intrigued by his casual offer to make me his mistress.  I think after he made the “I’m married” proclamation, he nonchalantly broke off a piece of french bread, buttered it and made a comment about how he loved this restaurant because the bread was always fresh.  “I hate stale bread…especially stale french bread.”  I stared at him for a few seconds, trying to find a way to participate in this conversation.  I managed a stammered, “Uh…you’re married?  Uhm…then, why…I don’t understand…this is a date, isn’t it?”  He chuckled and patted my arm.  It was this condescending gesture that finally moved me from bewildered to irate.  I asked him why he would ask me out on a date if he already had a wife.  “Why the hell am I here?”  I wondered.  He told me I was cute.  And seemed nice.  So, he thought he’d at least give it a shot.  “But, if you can’t handle it, then you know, I can understand that.  Not everyone is mature enough to handle such an arrangement.”

I got over my anger really quickly and chuckled myself.  I found his attempt to belittle me into sleeping with him so obvious and so counterproductive that I could no longer sustain anger.  Even at 20, I recognized that insulting a woman was probably not the best strategy to get her into your bed.  I finished my soup, informed him that he was probably going to go to hell and drove home.

Over the years there have been a handful of men who have just as casually mentioned the existence of a wife and a desire to “spend some time” with me in the same breathe.  At 34, I am no longer stunned by it.  I am still repulsed by it, but at this point I can spot an adulterer within a few minutes of his engaging me in conversation.  

So, last week when I walked into a friend’s dinner party and an attractive guy sat down next to me and began chatting me up, I took a quick look at his ring finger, silently admired he and his wife’s superb taste in jewelry and waited to see where the conversation would go.   The dinner party went well into the night.  Through out the evening, Aaron the adulterer made vaguely inappropriate inquiries into my private life.  All I laughed off with, “Stay out of grown folks business, bruh.”  Aaron circled the room and mingled with the other guests, occasionally coming back to sit next to me and make inappopriate comments until I no longer had the motivation to even blow him off.  I just ignored the comments altogether.

As the sun threatened to peek through the sky, Aaron the adulterer offered to drive all the women home.  Because of our chatting at the party, I knew that Aaron lived a few blocks away from me.  I knew that all the other women in Aaron’s car did not.  They lived far away from where the party was taking place, but not as far as Aaron and myself .  I knew that I would be the last woman in Aaron’s car who was being dropped off.  I knew Aaron would ask me to sleep with him.

After the last woman said good night and thanked Aaron for the ride, he turned to me and asked me two things.  Programming his GPS, he asked for my address and then he asked: “So, are you looking for company tonight?”  The only thing that stunned me was how dully predictable this scene was. I answered that I made it a point not to keep company with married men.  “But, thanks for checking to see if I was interested.  Particularly, the phrasing: Looking for company.  As if you just want to sit on the sofa and watch a movie and maybe, have some lemonade at 5 o’clock in the morning.”  Aaron came back with a quick inquiry: “It’s that serious to you, huh?”  He looked perturbed when I told him that yes, I was inflexible on my rule not to help a man betray the woman to whom he had committed his life.

Aaron the adulterer told me I sounded like a preacher.  (And this is where the standard “Will you be my ho” negotiation got a bit more interesting.)

Aaron tried to assuage any potential guilt I might feel by explaining keeping company with him could work out for both of us.  See, it wasn’t like he would be all clingy and be calling me and bothering me all the time.  We could have a good time and keep it at that.  I wouldn’t have to worry about “a brother being all in your face all the time.”  I nodded as Aaron argued his case. “So, you plan on sleeping with me and then never speaking to me again.”    I swooped my arms up and cupped by heart, threw in a pair of faux-doe eyes and let out an elongated exhale. “Wow, I feel like a princess.”

Aaron pressed on.  I think the innumerable cocktails he had consumed at the 7-hour dinner party rewarded him with an unbelievable resolve.  He told me he knew people like me.  People who made a big deal about stuff like this.  “I guess I’m different; it really isn’t that big of a deal to me.”  

Yeah, I kind of figured that out, bruh.

When we were about 10 minutes away from my apartment, Aaron the adulterer finally accepted that he would have to settle for having sex with his wife in the immediate future.  At this point in the night, he turned into one of those people who commits all manner of debauchery while drunk or high and then wakes up the next morning looking for a priest.  “I hope you don’t think I’m some sort of scum bag,” he asked with a level of sincerity that threw me off for a quick second.  “It’s not like I go around looking for this.  Just that, you know…I like your style and you were saying things tonight that made sense.  You’re smart.  You think before you voice your opinion; that’s cool.”

I should explain that the dinner party had taken place ALL UP IN Brooklyn.  I live ALL UP IN the Bronx.  I travelled three boroughs just to attend.  Although he was an adulterer, Aaron had proven himself to be a nice guy.  He saved me at least two hours on the train (during late night subway schedules which normally mean, just count your blessings if one comes every half hour or so).  I figured I could be his priest in exchange.  What was the harm in absolving him of his sins.  I listened as Aaron explained that he had never “done anything” before and that he hoped he wasn’t coming off as a jerk.  “Really, I’m not some scum bag,” he insisted.

“Dude, only God can judge you,” I offered to him.  “I am not God.  I am just the woman who won’t be sleeping with you.  Whether or not you are a scum bag is between you, your wife and the God you both serve.”

Sadly, these words did not offer Aaron the solace I had intended them to.  He looked offended.  Even as I thanked him for the ride and exited his car, there was a hint of disgust in his eyes.  (Or perhaps I was half asleep in the first place and imagined him being offended instead of plain ole indifferent.)

A week later, the stunned outrage that once boiled in my 20 year old feminist veins years ago has yet to even come to a healthy simmer now.  Perhaps it is just the shedding of naivete or the building of a fortress of cynicism that makes me find the conversation with Aaron absolutely hilarious.  While I know that the image I nursed about romantic affairs is probably more a prototype for romance novels than the standard for real life adultery, there is a part of me that wonders if this is what is truly sad about modern day infidelity? The fact that men like Aaron probably go into a marriage with no intention to remain faithful.  That when they do take on a “side piece,” she really is just that.  A woman who has the honor of getting sex from you when your wife is out of town or just away from the house for an afternoon.  There is no pretense of a connection. No attempt to feign even the most basic of concern for your “piece” as a woman with whom you have some sort of relationship, albeit a tenuous one. 

“I won’t bother you and be all up in your face,” Aaron proposed as a means of selling me on this infidelity thing.  So, thus, some married men want to continue their lives as single men in every sense of the word.  In the state of modern-day male-female relationships, even affairs have been drained of romantic courtship.  A single married man has no qualms about breaking his vows to his wife and no desire for his dating life to change simply because he has put a ring on some woman’s finger.  He is so indifferent that he doesn’t even save his shredding of vows for a former lover who resurfaced in his life or a true accident that occurred when he let his guard down and allowed his “office crush” to get too close to him. 

Since I have never had an affair, I am not sure how romantic they are.  I do wonder, however, if the modern version of cheating is as unfeeling, as impersonal, as removed from any real connection to another human being as just about everything else in the 21st century.

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I sometimes wish I were a loser.  Or at least a person who is content with a mediocre life, a safe, guaranteed 80 plus years of comfort and certainty.  While I am quite vocal about my bewilderment with such “average janes,” I do secretly envy these complacent souls.  I have a suspicion that these people do not spend a lot of time trying to “become.”  I am fairly certain that the reward of complacency is a life emptied of stress, anxiety, frustration and similar emotions that those of us who obsess over self-fulfillment and personal growth know at an intimate level.

Last week I found myself on a hill, questioning why “becoming” was so important to me.  Actually, the truth is I found myself crawling up a friggin’ mountain (ominously named “Breakneck Ridge”) quietly cussing out the friend who had convinced me to hike up said mountain.  The serene, vigorous stroll through the forest I had envisioned when this friend described the hike was threatening to become an extensive, 8-hour climb up and over hundreds of rocks and through trails that involved my having to slide down more rocks on my butt.  (The hike made good on its threat, by the way.  A week later, I am just now able to sit cross-legged on the floor without asking for help.)

When the evil friend who shall remain nameless (Nicholas L. Handville who currently resides in Fort Greene, Brooklyn) called to invite me on the hike, I was wallowing in my annoying state of becoming.  Becoming a woman who takes risks. Becoming a woman who runs, wide eyed and open armed, to the unfamiliar.  A woman who has big enough balls to fail.  A woman who does new stuff.  I was ruminating on this concept of “Just say yes, Girl!”  Pretend you’re a really cool Nike commercial from the 90’s.  JUST. DO. IT.  When Nick invited me to possibly break my neck scaling this ridge, I was recommitting myself to an experiment I began months ago.  Simply put: I would say yes to anything someone asked me to do…unless it involved crack or Tyler Perry movies.  So, Nick caught me at a particularly weak moment.  He asked me to climb up Breakneck Ridge and I had no choice but to say yes.  To just do it.  While I am not a hardcore outdoorsy girl who hikes for 8 hours, I reasoned, I can become one.  After all, I live to become.  

I will spare you the details of my forays into whining and refusing to take certain trails and having to be hoisted up rocks several times by patient “outdoorsy” people who smiled at me akin to the manner in which I smile at the student who raises her hand to answer a question that was asked 20 minutes earlier.  My 8 hour debacle in its hiliraious detail is not the focal point of this entry.  What the hike made me realize is the focal point.

Before the hike began, I looked up Breakneck Ridge at the collection of boulders that were piling on top of one another adding to the already extensive incline and thought about the massive amount of courage I would have to muster just to tentatively place one foot on the too-smooth surface.  I found myself almost breathless at how  difficult this was for me.  It was not the doing of it that was difficult.  It was the summoning of courage that rendered me almost useless before the hike even began.

Several times throughout the hike, I made note of this.  Before I could even think about how difficult it would be to scale a rock that sat wedged a gazillion feet above solid ground, I had to find the courage to convince myself to do it.  Then I had to dig for even more courage to actually do it.  Before I could do anything, I already needed to have conjured up copious amounts of courage.

And this is perhaps why becoming exhausts me.  To become anything involves having to silence a host of irrational fears (or at least ignore them) long enough to convince yourself that yes, you are able to do this.  The fear I felt on Breakneck Ridge is quite similar to the fear I feel when I attempt to make new friends.  I hear the same voice questioning me. Asking, “But, what if…”  The fear I felt on Breakneck Ridge is similar to the fear I feel when I write a query letter to yet another agent.  The same condescending, “But, what if…”  It is the same fear that causes me to labor for hours over spending more money than I’d budgeted for on any non-essential item.  An accusatory, “But, what if…”  In each occasion, I am sometimes awed at how the difficulty lies in the ability to convince myself that everything will be just fine if I talk to the smiling stranger, approach Edwidge Danticat’s agent, spend the extra 20 bucks on a backpack I will only use a handful of times.  And if things aren’t fine, in the comical way the Universe works…that, too, will be just fine.

Aside from the tenacity it takes to become the woman you want to be.  Forgetting about the devotion to evolving as a human.  It is the courage inherent in transforming into the woman the Universe has planned for you to be that seems to be the most difficult.  Courage does not come easy for many.  It is an intangible, elusive must-have that is a lot easier not to even bother searching for.  The average janes know this.  It stands to reason that they are a lot smarter than we “strivers” acknowledge.  Becoming is probably why I value naps as much as I do.

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Almost six months ago a casual acquaintance of mine disappeared.  Vanished into thin air.

For four days no one could find her.  The mutual friend we have in common had planned on hanging out with her and noted that she had not called a day or so before to confirm that they were getting together later in the week.  At first she rationalized that her friend of several years was just busy.  She had been in the final stages of defending her dissertation, for goodness sake. It stood to reason that she just could not find five free minutes to check in and see if they were still having drinks and a snack.  A little voice  in the back of her head grew louder, though.  Something is amiss, the voice demanded. Check on Paula.  

A few phone calls to friends and dozens of phone calls to Manhattan hospitals later, Paula was discovered.  Four days prior to the search for her, Paula had taken a nasty fall in the train station.  She cracked her head open and was rushed to the nearest hospital.  She couldn’t call her friends to reschedule appointments because she had been unconscious.

Paula is unmarried, unpartnered and several large bodies of water away from home and family.  

Paula is me.

Although I have worked vigorously to overcome it, I am a woman who is ruled by fear.  I am a self-proclaimed punk ass.  I cover my eyes at not only horror flicks, but action flicks with too many things blowing up at once.  I horde money in my savings account because of the vague possibility that I can end up unemployed and destitute at any given moment.  Upon seeing a mouse, I not only yell at the top of my lungs, but I also have been known to run into my bedroom, shut the door and call a friend who lives in Brooklyn, begging him to travel cross-borough and “rid my home of the rodent.”

Paula’s disappearance represents one of my greatest fears.  The fear that finds me lying on the floor of my apartment after having fallen from a ladder because I innocently wanted to change the light bulb in my bathroom.  No one comes to my house daily but me.  While I do have friends to whom I speak and with whom I socialize on a fairly regular basis, it is not unusual for me to go a week without hearing from those friends.  While we normally count those brief absences from each other’s lives as a case of “she’s busy,” what happens when that is not the case?

When Paula’s story was relayed at a group outing, I excused myself to go to the restroom. (I do this also when some movie decides to blow off some person’s head amid exploding cars or have a particularly brutal act committed on a child.)  I had a very visceral reaction to Paula’s accident and the fact that she could have lied in that hospital bed for another four days had our mutual friend not thought to listen to (and heed) the Universe’s whisper.

In the months that have passed, I have questioned why her story shook  me so.  Aside from the obvious concern that I could die if I had an accident and no one was around to come to my immediate aid, Paula’s story reiterated what smart single women, happy or otherwise, have always known.  A woman can definitely live this life without a man.  She can not live it alone, though.

For that was what unsettled me so when I heard Paula’s story.  She could have died because she was alone.  She, like so many of us, roamed Manhattan in this fog of “When something bad happens…” and that is where the statement ends.  Those who are partnered have a built in completion to that statement.  “….someone will call my husband/live-in boyfriend.”  The challenge presented to single gals is to find a completion to that statement so you are not a ghost for four days.  To do the extra work of connecting with people whom you love and who love you and making sure neither of you is attempting to walk the minefield that is modern-day life alone.

And that is what I fear the most.  Not never marrying.  But, living this life alone.  Before Paula’s story, I just thought it seemed terribly boring.  But, Paula has taught me that it is also incredibly dangerous.  If we kick ass, take over the world women are going to go forth solo, we need to create the systems that are automatic advantages of being married.  Someone who is responsible for you.  Someone who can be called within a moment’s notice for emergencies both large and small.  Someone who the many people on the periphery of your life knows is your “keeper.”  

I wonder if women who fret over STILL BEING SINGLE, really bemoan the lack of a husband mainly because husbands make stories like Paula’s less fearful.  More certain.  The laws of romantic love and legal matrimony by default give you a “keeper.”  Perhaps marriage creates less work in this sense.  I fall.  Crack my head.  Husband comes.  I do not die alone.

It has become clearer to me over the years that in fact, no woman is an island; nor should she be.  While there is no replacement for a mate in a woman’s life, she can arm herself with a companion, a person who is bound to her.  Such a bind needs to exist in a single gal’s life.

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Dear Fine Ass Dude From Trina’s Barbecue the Other Weekend:

Yes, we had a nice flirtation going on for about 15 or 20 minutes. When I walked in, I saw you get that, “Hey, new pussy” look that men who look like you often get when a woman who does not normally run in their social circle cruises into a party that rarely has new people. Your determination to make sure I and every other person in Trina’s backyard knew who you were was not very sexy, but those biceps and bald head made up for the slightly obnoxious behavior you displayed throughout the barbecue.

Mid way through our back and forth flirtation, you mentioned another party you were thinking about going to later on. You asked if I might be there as well. I thought for a second about saying yes although I was pretty tuckered out from Trina’s barbecue and am at a point in my life where hopping from party to party so as not to go home “too early” does not appeal to me. In case you were wondering why I never got back to you with a definitive yes or no, I want to share a perfectly harmless moment I just happened to catch in the corner of my eye.

One of the women with whom you are sleeping and who thinks she is your girlfriend walked into Trina’s living room from the kitchen. She was munching on a slice of cake when she slipped in next to you on the sofa. You chuckled as you asked, “I thought you were on a diet?” She guffawed and slapped you across the head. Both of you laughed. You laughed heartily as you poked her in the belly and noted, “You’re getting a little soft there, huh?”

Now, I could write a long diatribe about what an assholey thing that was to say to a woman. Particularly a woman who has an amazing body that could take the hit of a little “softness.” But, that would be off topic. Your comment in of itself was not what brought me to the conclusion that I would not be attending the party later on or giving you my phone number.

Fine Ass Dude, I am not the woman whom you seek. I have met men like you once or twice. I have had very candid conversations with them. You, Fine Ass Dude, strike me as a man who prefers that his woman keep it “tight and right.” While you would not “require” her to have a flat stomach that looks good in a two-piece bathing suit and arms that give Michelle Obama a run for her money, you would be severely disappointed if she did not possess these attributes. You would expect your woman to put the maintaining of a shapely, toned physique at the top of her priority list.

Hence, I am not the woman you seek.

Let’s be clear here, this is not a letter bemoaning how difficult it is to keep a body “tight and right.” Nor, is it veiled remorse that I am not toned enough to date you. It is simply an acknowledgment that had I gone out with you and pursued any type of relationship with you, our time together would have been quite brief. Because the things that are important to you are… well…Fine Ass Dude, they are simply non-issues for me.

I am well aware that I sport a slight baby bump although I am not actually carrying a baby in my bump. I am not blind to the flapping of my arms as I wave to a friend from across the street. The thing is neither of these things bother me enough to obsess over or even think about on a regular basis. If we were to date, I get the impression that at some point you would wonder why I am doing nothing more at the gym than taking a spin class or playing around on the treadmill. You would wonder why I am not aspiring to wear that two piece to the beach when we go away for the weekend. And that’s the problem Fine Ass Dude…only YOU would be concerning yourself with such worries. See, I have already figured out how my relationship with free weights works: I train with them once or twice a summer before I get bored and annoyed that they add an extra 20 minutes to my workout and never pick them up again until the following summer. I don’t fret about looking good in a two-piece bathing suit because Macy’s has a diverse selection of really cute one piece suits in which I look quite appetizing. Perhaps if Macy’s stopped carrying attractive one pieces, I would find motivation to get into that two piece.

Okay, that was an out and out lie, Fine Ass Dude. I would probably just go to Filene’s Basement.

Please do not think that this letter is a judgment. (only God can judge you, Bruh. Judgment is above my pay grade.) While this entire paragraph can be loaded with righteous indignation and a call for women to love their bodies for what they are, the thing is…it really is not that deep when I think about it. You want what you want. And there are more than a few women in this great city who can give you exactly what you want. Therefore, you should date one of them; not me.

I am a woman who exerts a lot of energy worrying about a lot of stuff.  Much of the stuff I fret over I can not control, which causes me to fret even more, actually.  I have parents who continue to age even though I repeatedly ask them to stop doing that foolishness.  I have a lump on my head that may or may not be a tumor.  I itch in the middle of the night.  I need to remodel my bathroom on a teacher’s salary.  My little brother is wasting away his youth and refuses to use his best years to actually accomplish something.  In the grand scheme of things, I really can not afford to waste perfectly good anxiety on the pursuit of a body that is “tight and right.”

So, in short…it is best that we remain really distant acquaintances who sometimes run into each other at random social events.  Again, I want for you the exact same thing I want for me.  TO GET WHAT YOU  WANT.  A woman who is not me.

I wish you well in all your future endeavors.

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I am the proud mother of a 5 year old daughter.

If any of you are surprised by this birth announcement, you are not alone.  So am I.

I was unaware that five years ago I gave birth until recently when a student asked me (in the abrupt, slightly inappropriate manner common among 8th graders): “Miss, you got a baby?”  I was explaining the rules to a game of tag that a group of the girls wanted to play while we had a little down time; hence I was expecting questions along the line of: “So, what happens if the octopus tags you” as opposed to random inquiries into my parental status.  The inappropriate 8th grader was sitting out this round of octopus so I quickly called across the gym: “Uh…does that sound like a question you should be asking while I’m trying to explain something to your classmates…ponder that for a moment, why don’t you…”

She apologized immediately (not for being intrusive, mind you; only for interrupting).  She explained her reason for the inquiry with: “They said you have a daughter…and she’s five.”  For a brief second I wondered who ‘they’ was and why these kids kept listening to what ‘they’ said.  ‘They’ seem to always disseminate inaccurate half truths that normally result in some kid getting in trouble. Yet, the kids keep taking ‘they’ at their word.

I informed this gullible 13 year old that “Once again, ‘they’ have lied to you.  You should stop listening to ‘them.’  ‘They’ never know what they’re talking about.” And here is the truly hilarious part: The girl INSISTED that I did, indeed,  have a child.  She even went so far as to remember seeing a picture of my daughter.  “Remember,” she tried to remind me.  “Last year, when I would come into your classroom.  You had a picture of a baby on your desk.  That was your daughter, wasn’t it?”

When I explained that this ghost picture she remembered so vividly could have been a picture of my niece or one of my friends’ children, she looked perturbed.  “So, you don’t have a baby?”  I apologized for disappointing her, but assured her I would have remembered giving birth and raising a child.  “No baby.  I am certain of it.”

I teach in East Harlem.  At an all girls school.  Half of the girls are Latina.  The other half are Black.  I am a Black woman  in her mid 30’s who does not have children.  And does not seem to be concerned that she does not have children.  I am an enigma.

This is not news to me.  I have been quizzed by students, boyfriends, family members and the occasional friend on my lack of frenzied panic over my dwindling childbearing years.  While grown ups don’t interrogate you about a child that does not exist, they do seem to assume that you are preoccupied with thoughts of your non-existent children and plans to bring them to fruition.

There are many time-honored misconceptions about the modern-day single gal.  Out of all of them, my favorite, hands down, would have to be: We all secretly yearn to be mothers.  If Black single gals, particularly, manage to make it to their mid-30’s childfree, it is only because they are bizarrely committed to the concept of having a husband before having a baby.  So, in short, if you are single and childfree, it is most likely a circumstance in which you have happened to find yourself.  One which you dutifully accept until you finally meet HIM.  And speaking of meeting HIM…yeah, you better get on that because well…don’t you want to be a mother?  There’s only a very short window of time we have to work with, now don’t we?

Over the last few years, I have spoken openly about my genuine disinterest in giving birth and raising children.  The reaction I often get explains why my students naturally assume I either have children or eventually want them.  EVERYBODY assumes what the 8th graders do.  The look of relief that takes over a date’s face when I tell him I don’t have any kids usually morphs into one of disbelief when I eventually share that I have  no desire to have them either.  For those men who have managed to make it to their 30’s or 40’s without children, this news gives them pause.  And something from which to save me.  Myself.  They either brush off my lack of interest in motherhood as a sign that I have not met the right guy or pity me as a woman who will live my latter years in remorseful sorrow.  Either way, this denial of my maternal instincts can send an overly eager hero-type into rescue-this-confused-pretty-woman nirvana.

Men who already have children seem to hold the look of relief longer on their faces. I assume they are more relieved than their childless counterparts because my choice to remain childfree signifies one less thing to complicate things between us.  I will, hopefully, be an easy one to please.  A woman who is not ruled by a ticking biological clock, thank god, I imagine them saying to themselves.  Interestingly, though, they still seem a bit incredulous and question if I am avoiding having children because of other reasons.  “You don’t have to worry if you don’t feel maternal right off,” one of them told me.  “When you see your child and it hits you that you’re responsible for him, then that parental instinct kicks right in.”  (I chose not to mention that over the four years I have taught I have encountered at least a half dozen kids whose parents continually disprove this sweet little theory of his.)

If men refuse to accept that a woman is perfectly happy with her choice to be childfree, other women seem to be practically floored by it.  I have found that for many women, particularly those who have children, my not wanting children is not the peculiarity.  Apparently, what makes me odd is my not having a good enough reason for not wanting children.  From comments I’ve gotten over the years, it appears that a woman who actually voices disinterest in motherhood has to put that disinterest into context.  Her disinterest goes down smoother if she has a valid excuse for coming to this place of childfree joy.  She has to preface her assertion with a long history of dating mishaps and heartbreaks that she has dealt with in some form of therapy that has brought her to this difficult conclusion that perhaps, marriage and motherhood are not in the cards for her.  “And now, I have decided to make peace with it.”

Medical reasons also place high on the Acceptable Reasons to Reject Motherhood list. Fibroids.  Rare blood diseases.  Infertile husbands.  Those not only get you nods of approval, but they grant you one of those get-out-of-jail free cards.  Women who share their medical reasons for not having children are not obligated to defend their childlessness again.  They are no longer asked about it.  Nor are they ever again casually chided for still not sporting a baby bump.  They have a real reason.  A sad one at that.  They get a pass.

One friend spent a good 30 minutes trying to help me find the real reason why I was claiming to not want children.  She spoke tentatively about my childhood as one of five children.  She speculated that my parents’ divorce and my mother’s subsequent single motherhood status soured me on having children.  “You had a lot of responsibility for your little brother,” she inferred.  “I mean, maybe in  your subconscious you decided that you had already raised one child while you were still a child yourself so now you don’t want to do it as an adult.”    I had thought about this years before when I was in my 20s and confronted by all of my friends’ quests for future daddy material in their boyfriends.  Back then, I thought a lot like my 8th graders.  If I didn’t want children, something had to be wrong with me.  There had to be a much deeper reason behind my disinterest than I was willing to admit.  Something I had buried.  So, my friend was about 10 years behind me in this armchair pyschological analysis.

“Perhaps, you have a point,” I allowed her.  “But, what if my reason for not wanting children is much simpler.  Much healthier?  What if I realize that motherhood is a calling?  And just like every person who happens to have a Bible probably shouldn’t be in the pulpit, perhaps every person who happens to have a uterus shouldn’t just by default carry a baby in it?”  That’s what confuses me about this disbelief that women can choose childfreedom from a place of RESPECT for the role of motherhood.  Why is it so difficult to believe that a woman chooses not to be a mother because she looks honestly and objectively at what such a role means and makes the responsible choice not to sign up for the job?  Doesn’t such a decision make a woman…thoughtful, smart, SELFLESS?  Isn’t the I-have-a-uterus-so-I-might-as-well-do-something-with-it mentality really the one we should question?

I have won over more than a few adults with the afore-mentioned perspective on childfree by choice women.  However, my 8th graders, although very bright, are not yet capable of grasping such nuanced philosophies on life.  So, I am left to construct an acceptable response to their inquiries into my childfreedom.  After the young lady interrogated me on my ghost daughter, rumor spread around the 8th grade that the English teacher had a baby that for some strange reason she didn’t want to tell people about.  (13 year old students get really bored around May.)

So now when the question does reappear, I have a response.  The next time I am randomly asked, “Miss, you got a baby,”  I will look the inquirer in the eye and reply, “Yes, I do.  I keep Rose in the book closet.  Could you give her this pb&j, please?”

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Another single gal and I were discussing Chris Rock’s highly underestimated movie, I Think I Love My Wife.  I remember quite a while ago standing in line to buy a ticket to see it and consciously expecting nothing but funny antics from Chris with a few of his unique insights about life sprinkled in here and there.  I was pleased to witness quite the opposite.  I Think I Love My Wife was noticeably light on Chris-is-funny-as-hell antics and heavy on nuanced portrayals of the quiet difficulties of married life.  Specifically, married suburban life that came with kids, middle class angst and painstakingly mundane routines.  It struck me as a very honest and humane depiction of how easily infidelity can creep into a marriage – regardless of how committed both partners were to the mate they loved and trusted enough to marry.

And this is what floored my single gal friend once she had gotten around to seeing the movie on DVD.  Chris Rock’s character came dangerously close to cheating on his wife because he and the wife had not had sex in MONTHS.  (I think they were working on one full year by the time they both went to the requisite marriage counselor.) “Who are these crazy ass women refusing to sleep with their husbands,” my friend wondered.  And why were they all outraged when their sexless husbands found themselves in hotel rooms with an eager to please secretary or waitress or Starbucks barista or any other woman with an inviting smile and a libido?

I laughed at my friend’s genuine shock of wives who refused their husbands sex.  Her point, of course, was if you don’t sleep with your husband for months on end, well, what else is there for him to do but end up in bed with some other woman.  I remember being confused by Chris Rock’s character’s sexless marriage when I first saw the movie, also.  But, I don’t think that part of the movie stood out for me simply because the wife was representing a bunch of wives who clear the path to infidelity when they withhold sex from their husbands.  I was and still am baffled by this concept of SEXLESS MARRIAGE.  The fact that they really exist and that often it is the wife who is not giving it up.  Like many things in life…I don’t get it.

Perhaps it is because I am a single gal.  And as a single gal, a fair amount of my life is spent strategizing how to have greater access to the happy stick.  While those who possess the happy stick would probably wonder why I would need to strategize in the first place, for many single women, getting sex from a man worth having sex with is…well, it’s like having a part-time job that only pays enough to give you pocket change, but still requires an inordinate amount of your energy.  There is the attraction and initial flirtation that is often fun and if it were up to him could easily result in access to the happy stick without progressing to the next stage at all.  But, for all of the single gals I know, the initial attraction stage is not all that is needed to result in partaking of the happy stick.  

And this is where I envy the few wives I know.  They no longer have to bother with the work that comes after the initial attraction/flirtation stage.  There are no requisite “getting to know you” activities staged in the midst of sexual tension that is so thick it is damn near suffocating both of you, but neither you nor he feel comfortable enough to acknowledge your loss of oxygen just yet.  There are no scheduling conflicts that get in the way of these “getting to know you” activities in the first place.  There are no clenched teeth when he says or does something asinine as you realize that this guy may not be worth shaving above the knee for. And once you have progressed to enjoying the happy stick as often as possible, there are no complicated readjustments of schedules, no traveling involved, no negotiating and analyzing what enjoying the happy stick now means for the both of you.  

To think that these wives have the happy stick right next to them EVERY SINGLE NIGHT and they say…”No, thanks, Hon.”  I. DON’T. GET. IT.

I see these wives on Oprah sometimes  explaining themselves.  They say stuff like, “I am so tired by the time we get in the bed.”  “I am so stressed with the kids and arranging for the pool guy to come and clean the pool and then getting the kids to softball practice…”  “I feel like I’ve lost my sex drive.”  When I hear these wives discuss their very legitimate ailments, I am even more baffled by why they are not having sex with their husbands.  If you are fatigued, spend a few moments with the happy stick.  I imagine that would give you a little more energy. After all, the happy stick can’t solve every problem in a marriage, bit it can make you…well, happy at least.  Stress?  Hello, what better way to relieve tension than by enjoying the happy stick?  And perhaps a key way to find your lost sex drive is to…HAVE SEX.  I mean, I’m no therapist, but…

I do not intend to judge women who find themselves in sexless marriages.  Life and love are complicated so I am willing to acknowledge that there are real, hard to articulate reasons why a wife would choose the running of a household and raising of children over a healthy sex life with her husband.  I do admonish these women to simply remember their lives before being blessed with 24 hour access to the happy stick, though.  How often they wished they could just get this one little thing easily…without effort.  Without work.  I encourage wives to not take such a gift for granted.  We single gals, although well adjusted and happy with our lives, envy you.  

PICK UP THE HAPPY STICK, WIVES.  

That is all…

I think.

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