My girlfriend Joy Lynn invited me over for tea the other day. Tea, of course, is code for wine, and she served it with an old-fashioned cheese ball and bruschetta, so it was all very civilized and nostalgic. Perhaps it was the nostalgia that guided our conversation into the familiar trenches of a woman’s place in Murphy.
“Used to be,” Joy Lynn said with her smoky voice and unwavering eye contact, “that a woman couldn’t even go to the races without a male escort.” She discusses this in a bruised tone because she felt slighted, back in the day, when she’d head out to the Tri-County Race Track in Brasstown unescorted because her husband traveled for work.
“I can up that,” I told her, sloshing my wine because I lack her elegance. “Try going to out to dinner on your own in Murphy!”
I’ve attempted this-what should be insipid task-multiple times and am usually dragged to an undesirable table near the kitchen or bathroom. “I’m sorry, can you repeat the vodka choices? I couldn’t hear you over that flush.” The charming window tables, apparently, are reserved for those sensible enough to bring along a dinner companion.
Joy Lynn laughed, and I used the pause to replenish my plate with more cheese and toast. The cheese ball was proving difficult; they are tougher than they look, and I couldn’t get it to spread onto my toast. A large blob sat taunting me in the middle of my brochette, refusing to cooperate.
I had no choice but to open my jaw, snake-like, and stuff the whole thing in. Joy Lynn pretended not to notice but we had to sit in her red-carpeted fancy room, a quiet place, listening to my mastication for several minutes. It felt scandalous.
“There is something about a woman on her own that seems to baffle people,” she was saying. I had quite a bit to add on this subject, so hurried my cheese ball along with a swig of the wine.
“Women are the worst,” I say. “They see a single woman as one of three things …” Joy Lynn jumps in, grabbing the baton as if we are in a relay race.
“On the hunt for a husband,” she says, holding her finger up to indicate “one.” I take back the baton.
“Two,” I say, holding up a peace sign, “they think she’s a threat to their husbands.”
We both nod at that, having felt that crisp attitude in our share of church lobbies. “Or three,” and I pop my empty ring finger up to join my peace sign, “they see us as defective man-haters.”
Joy Lynn doesn’t agree with this last one and allows her head-shake to tell me so.
“Not defective,” she says, slowing things down, “but more as an inconvenience.” We both swish that around our heads and nod in agreement.
“Yes,” I say, “We aren’t invited to dinner parties because we’d be odd man out at the table.”
We both laugh at that because a single man would never be considered odd at a coupled table. Not in the way a single lady would be.
“It seems incomprehensible to coupled people that a single woman could be satisfied with her station,” I say, eyeing the cheese ball but holding back, remembering its victory in our recent battle. “People often tell me not to worry, that I’ll find someone one day,” I tell her, and she rolls her eyes in accord.
 |
This happens all the time to me. Women, I guess in an attempt to absolve me of my sin of living single, pat my hand in comfort, “You’ll find the right guy one day.”
This enrages me. Find the right guy, as if I lost one and am out on a manic search? One, I’m not looking and, two, how dare you assume I am not enough for myself.
I was out with some friends, men included, a few months ago. Someone asked me if I thought I’d ever fall in love again.
“If I found a man who could love me as well as I love myself, I might consider it,” I had answered.
But by the time I got home to my cozy little house and searched for a Netflix show to please only myself, and then crawled into a bed making snow angels because the whole thing belongs only to me, I revised my answer. I simply cannot imagine a relationship that would offer me more than it took from me.
Every little particular in my life is solely up to me. How I spend my time, my money, my thoughts, the way I decorate a room or eat popcorn for dinner – it’s all in service to myself. There is such a pleasure in singular living.
When I need human touch, I pay my skilled massage therapist, Jenny. When I want to give away something of myself, I volunteer at the Rotary Club of Murphy. When I want to socialize, I hang out with my girlfriends.
Single women are not living their lives in a holding pattern, waiting for a partner to complete them. I’m so full that I’m overflowing. Joy Lynn understands this.
“There is nothing that would convince me to marry again,” she said, surveying her castle as the queen that she is. “Why would I want to do something like that?” she asked me and, in answer, I tipped my wine glass to kiss my lips and pulled the nectar deep inside.
When I finished, I rested my head against her satin cushion and stared into the delicate chandelier, content and satiated.
Abigail Blythe Batton is a staff correspondent for the Cherokee Scout. Her column runs every other week. Email her at ablythebatton@gmail.com or leave a message at 837-5122.