I know you all are shocked (and possibly awed, but that may be overkill) to be getting another post a mere nineteen days after the last, seeing as how my track record for new posts has been dismal since the Year of Our Lord 2021, in which my life totally fell apart and nearly every person I trusted disappointed me. But that is definitely a story for another time, unless you’ve heard it already.
I’m here today because it was either this or watch romantic comedies all day, and as appealing as that rom-com choice is, I’ve already watched too many of them this week and was about to launch on the third rewatch of one of them. I love romantic comedies, but the problem with watching a glut of them in such a short period of time is that I feel good for the first few, but then a start to feel worse until I’m rolling my eyes and screaming at the TV, which is not a good look, even if it’s just me and the cat.
Read more: Handbook for the Single and Middle AgedY’all, this is what it’s like to be single and fifty.
I’m sure someone has written some sort of handbook or information guide about all the things you don’t think about and no one ever tells you until you’re suddenly single again after twenty-something years, but if there is, I didn’t read it. But at this point, I could probably write such a book, and it could contain chapters like:
There’s No One to Sit with You in the ER. As I mentioned in the last post, I was briefly hospitalized in August. My short stay in that establishment (0/10, do not recommend) was preceded by a visit to the ER (and unfortunately, not a hunky doctor in sight). My son lives in another state, and my daughter was at a conference out of town, but I was lucky enough (okay, I literally stared at my phone for like, three minutes, trying to decide who I should call to undertake this most boring of all errands) that my stepmother was free to come there to just…sit with me. That’s it. Just sit, and maybe talk, and have a second set of ears to hear when the not-hot doc tells you you’re in for an overnight visit.
It’s All Your Job Now. Anyone whose been married for any length of time knows the whole thing is a series of negotiations about who is going to perform which chores, and when you’re suddenly single, your at-home workload doubles.
It wasn’t a problem for the things I was doing already, but I got fired from dishwasher loading the first week I was married because I sucked so bad at it, so that was a thing I had to learn to do. I still feel like I’m just throwing things in there and hoping for the best. I hadn’t paid a bill since my son was born, so I had to learn how to do that, too, and in the intervening years, everyone stopped writing physical checks. I mean, I’m tickled not to have to deal with a checkbook, but there was a learning curve. And the air filters. When I was married, I knew the air filters had to be periodically purchased and changed, and doing so requires a ladder. Vickie doesn’t do ladders, so I never had to change them. Then my daughter and I moved into our new home, which has two air filters, and one of these is at the top of the stairs. A stepladder is already a no from me, but a stepladder at the top of a staircase is a hard pass. I have my daughter change them while I stand at the bottom of the ladder feeling tense and woozy, and telling her not to fall, which will prevent her from falling, right? Right?!?!?
People Stop Asking You to Do Stuff. When you’re married you make a lot of couple friends, and you all do couple-y things together. But when you are uncoupled, those people stop asking, because being a third or fifth wheel is weird and awkward for everyone. To be fair, right after THE THING happened, I was so depressed that I said no to a lot of stuff, so maybe people just stopped asking? I can’t blame them for that. I will make the ask to my single friends, or to one-half of a couple friend the first few times, but I don’t want to be the one always making an effort. And sometimes, I’m pretty sure I’m just being a nuisance anyway.
It’s All Different Out There. I had my last first date in 1997, with a boy (not a man; he was 22 and I was 23. Babies!) I met in college. There are more details, but those are the basics. A lot of my friends were pairing off the same way with people they met in class or in the student union, or–more rarely–a bar or party (I didn’t really run with a bar-and-party-going crowd). In the absence of college (I graduated in 1998), I’m not sure how to meet people anymore. I’m told it happens mostly online and through dating apps and that is terrifying. And it seems like so much work. There is nothing that sounds less appealing then spending a chunk of my phone time (which, to be honest, is already probably excessive), scrolling through photographs of strangers trying to discern from what little they have provided the sincere ones from the liars, all the while remembering someone, somewhere is doing the same with your photograph and blurb. Ugh. I’m getting heartburn just thinking about it. It’s really hard to convey most of your best qualities through a six-inch screen, and if it’s all based on your photo, I’m sunk.
In 1997 I knew what I was looking for–I wanted a family, so it was easy to eliminate anyone who didn’t want that, but to be fair, I wasn’t doing a whole lot of eliminating. I’ve never been very good at this. Now that my kids are grown, what I want is less clear. I have learned the distinct difference between being alone and being lonely, and though I am frequently the first, I am less often the second. But it does happen.
I won’t bore you with the chapters Cooking for One Sucks or I Don’t Know Which Tires to Buy or Yes, I Asked for (and Received) a Drill for Christmas, and There’s Nothing Dirty About That, you Pervert. The final chapter is, of course, Do What Makes You Happy, even if it is an all-day rom-com marathon.
Vickie Jarman 