[I’m stunned, and a little proud of myself, to realize that, for once in my life, I was slightly ahead of the zeitgeist. Suddenly, everywhere I turn, younger and smarter women are writing about renouncing patriarchal entitlement and finding happiness alone. This American Ex-Wife by Lyz Lenz and Splinters by Leslie Jamison are two outstanding new contributions to this important conversation. Though I recently shared my related aversion to online dating, when I wrote the following two years ago I kept it to myself because most of my attempts to communicate my position resulted in either incomprehension or pity. The current sea change has emboldened me to share.]
At the time my divorce was finalized, I assumed that I’d eventually meet another man to share my life with. I was not opposed to the institution of marriage or angry at men in general just because a man I had loved for almost thirty years had mistreated and then tried to destroy me. Still unconsciously ruled by the programming of my childhood and the faulty logic that allowed me to survive, I hadn’t yet questioned anything. Not my role in the dissolution of the marriage, not what I might be looking for in a partner (believing that I’d be lucky just to be chosen), not if or why I even wanted a partner. The cataclysms of the previous couple of years might have woken me up, but I was still living in La La Land.
Today I’m not only adamant that I will never marry again, but I shudder at the mere thought of a conventional relationship. What, exactly, would be in it for me? Cui bono? My childbearing years are long over (not that a full-time partner is necessary or even helpful in actually raising children) and I’m fortunate to have a bit of financial security. I have zero interest in accommodating the emotional baggage that invariably accompanies men that are age-appropriate, and even less interest in being a “nurse or a purse”. The thought of making room for someone else’s stuff in the gorgeous sanctuary I’ve created, never mind actually having another person in that space every day, makes my anal sphincter do the cha cha. But what really makes it a non-starter for me is the thought that I might absentmindedly revert to the million little ways in which I used to abandon myself by reflexively placing a man’s happiness above my own. The constant vigilance required to fight this tendency, ingrained from birth and reinforced by experience, is more work than I’m willing to do. I’m retired.
And maybe it’s the result of years of accepting crumbs and pretending they were a feast, but the thought of compromise summons my feral inner teen. Just not happening. I’m the queen of my realm, and everything gets to be just the way I like it. All the time.
I didn’t just wake up one day feeling this way; it was a slow and sometimes painful evolution. I dipped my toe back in the water with a man who became my best friend and lover despite (or maybe because of) the fact that we were both clear and steadfast in our acknowledgement that we would never be partners. We joked that he was my “human training wheels”, allowing me to gently experience receiving the attention, affection, and companionship of a man without the usual investment required by a conventional relationship.
In the early days of our friendship, I didn’t fully appreciate this. I started thinking it’d be nice to be able to laugh and have such great sex with someone I could also build a future with (which, sadly, in those days I still defined, albeit unconsciously, as someone I could submit to totally, someone who would have access to and understand my every thought, someone who’d be all up in my business as I was all up in his 24/7). I was very open about my desire to find a “real boyfriend” someday, and my friend encouraged me.
The “real boyfriend” appeared a year or so later, in the form of a seemingly charming, successful, intelligent friend of a friend whose primary residence was on an island a thousand miles away. While there are countless angles from which we could unpack this in therapy, the pertinent facts are that: (1) Overnight I reverted to abandoning myself for a man, so thrilled to be chosen that I gobbled up crumbs and blithely overlooked ugly little spurts of misogyny, inconsideration, condescension, and self-absorption and 2) that deep down I knew that something wasn’t right; my body was sending me all sorts of signals that I chose to ignore. Six months in, it took a surprising, nasty, yet sickeningly familiar mind-fuck during one of his visits to make me walk away. That’s when the tide began to turn; when I became unwavering in my resolve to never again allow a man to even attempt to dominate or control me, or to make me feel like they were doing me a favor.
Had I not had my lovely experience with my friend (which I made haste to resume), I might have assumed that I was only capable of attracting narcissistic bullies and thrown in the towel. Instead, living the reality that there were kind people out there who lit up when I entered a room, and bolstered by my ability to walk away after six months instead of 25 years, I decided that I just needed to keep looking for the perfect partner. But I had lots going on, and a great source of comfort, so “looking” was far more theoretical than practical. I kept my head down, tried to live in the moment, and worked hard at healing; especially at seeing, facing, and speaking the truth.
And in tiny increments over the next couple of years, it finally dawned on me that the relationship I really wanted, and badly needed, was one with myself. I’d always enjoyed spending time by myself; when had I caved to the notion that it made you a loser if you didn’t have a partner? Others’ reactions at my being “alone again” when I walked away from the “real boyfriend” were eye-opening. What could he have done that was so bad? Wouldn’t it be better than being alone? Once I recovered from my astonishment at the many levels of ick inherent in that question, my resounding no became my guide going forward. Were there really people who didn’t understand that there are so many things so much worse than being alone? That occasional loneliness is a small price to pay for not abandoning yourself?
As I continued to sort myself out and rebuild a life worth living, my focus gradually shifted from what was “missing” in my life to all that I had. My own home, a loving friend, and time with my daughter were all huge blessings. I went on a few dates, but most made me regret the time I’d never get back, not because they were so horrible, but because they weren’t nearly as pleasant as the time I spent in my own company doing things that I loved. Looking closer at the partnered women around me and seeing the investment of inordinate amounts of emotional and physical energy in exchange for extremely paltry returns solidified my emerging sense that maybe I was the lucky one.
Finally, one day I found myself 180 degrees from where I’d started. The idea that my life would be incomplete, that I would be incomplete, without a man was a fallacy and a rip-off. A prank played by the dominant culture. Nothing was missing from the fabulous life I’d so painstakingly constructed.
Of course, this is not a popular stance, even, sometimes especially, among other women. And I’m aware that, depending on my audience and whether I’ve been fed and watered properly, I might sometimes come across as damaged and bitter. My resolute no thank you can be seen as an affront. When you’re steadfast in your rejection of something others hold dear, it can be seen as a criticism, if not a threat.
Plenty of well-meaning, slightly boundary-challenged people have tried to change my mind. Don’t you want companionship? Sure, but a man isn’t the only one who can provide it. (Funny, none of the people who inquire are bold enough to mention sex. When I volunteer that as a straight woman that sex is the only part of companionship that a male is strictly necessary for, I invariably lose them.) And also? I was never lonelier than when I was married. What about when you get old? Same. Our collective lack of imagination is stupefying.
My unwillingness to center my life around a man makes me think that I’m likely destined to spend the remainder of my days without a significant other. Then again, I’ve learned that miracles do happen. I concede that there could be a man out there somewhere who is age-appropriate, and a grownup, and who does not have erectile dysfunction that he is unwilling or unable to talk about. And this same man might think I’m the second coming of the Goddess and be willing to forgo being joined at the hip. There may be unicorns, too; I’m just not going to spend my one wild and precious life searching for them. I’m too busy enjoying my relationship with myself.