“Fine!” comes his retort, “but you’ll be alone for the rest of your life!”
He says it as a warning, but he means it as a threat.
“Um…okay?”
It’s not the threat he thinks it is. Instead of it hitting me like a gut punch, it hits more like a punchline of a private joke.
He’s not quite done, though. “You need to lower your standards,” says the man my age who expects his partner to have the body of a 25-year-old, the financial independence of a woman-boss in her late 50’s, the stamina of a 30-year-old nurse, and the uncanny ability to do his laundry and make him sandwiches.
Well, one out of four ain’t bad, I suppose.
“I don’t need to do anything,” I say and walk away.
And I don’t. I certainly don’t need to be told what I “need” to do. When I was younger and single, I heard after every break-up or disappointment that “you need to go work on yourself.” People didn’t ask if I’d been working on myself and didn’t even seem to think about their words. Just spouted it like the unsolicited advice it was. Like many women, I worked on myself until I was damned near perfect, only to have the men in my dating pool not make any effort at all to fix themselves.
While the bar for quality men began to sink lower every year–something I hear from other women as well–I watched women do every painful thing they could think of, physically and emotionally, to be appealing to less-than-average men. Because they were constantly told to work on themselves and to lower their standards at the same time.
The last man I dated for any length of time was sweet, fun, a wonderful kisser, and I enjoyed his company, but it wasn’t enough. At this age, I couldn’t see a future with him–though I think I might have a couple of decades ago. I couldn’t give him the things he wanted from me. Okay, yeah, I could become exactly what he wanted–excluding the younger body–but I wasn’t interested in becoming the things he needed from me. Some of those things were great for him, but not so much for me. I don’t mean a matter of me not wanting to be a selfless giver but knowing that giving in these cases would have a harmful result for me but not for him. If I were more forthcoming about his needs, that would be obvious, but I don’t have to be.
The last man I had truly deep feelings for was everything I wanted in a partner–until I caught him in a lie. That was always a dealbreaker for me. Little white lies, big lies. It didn’t matter. I’d been burned badly before by a pathological liar, so I insisted on truth between us. A few times, my intuition told me something was amiss but, like most women I know, intuition isn’t enough to risk being called silly or irrational by the person who, we later learn, is crafting the lie. In this case, I’d made some life-changing decisions I couldn’t reverse based on his, um, misdirection, and while most were positive, there is one I deeply, deeply regret, and it can never be undone.
Does that mean that there aren’t still good men out there? Nope, but I’m not willing to spend my precious time scouring the planet looking for them either. There’s good reason for that, and it has to do with me, not them.
I know myself pretty well at this point in my life. I’m okay with my solitude–I actually luxuriate in it–and the loneliest I’ve ever been was when I was in the same bed with a committed partner who turned the silent treatment into an artform. What I know about myself is that when I’m in a relationship, I put my partner’s needs and dreams first. I always have. It’s just how I’m built, and that doesn’t change, no matter the relationship, because I’m the common denominator.
There are several men in the world who saw their dreams come true when we were together because I poured all my energy into helping make it happen, whether it was sweat equity or making introductions to the right people and opportunities. I was glad to do it–because we were partners, a team, and that’s what we do, right? Support each other? Support each other’s dreams?
But I had dreams, too, that always got put on the back burner, or diminished because they wanted their dreams to be enough for me, or they wanted to create new dreams for me of their own making.
These days, I’m happily alone. Please don’t tell me I don’t mean it. I do. I’m the happiest I’ve ever been because I’m living my dreams every single day. Living my best life, as they say. Life is both exciting and peaceful, and it’s fulfilling in ways it wasn’t when I was giving away my own kindling for someone else’s fire.
Will I be alone the rest of my life? Maybe. Unless someone can bring more to my table than the feast I already have prepared for myself. Someone who can offer more than the peace I’ve built for myself. Given the longevity of my bloodline, I could have another thirty years alone, with my mental faculties in order and my passions still pouring out of me.
And I’m absolutely okay with that. The point is happiness, not living up to societal expectations.
“Don’t close down your heart,” some well-meaning person warns me as though I’m a fresh-faced teen promising I’ll never love again.
They don’t understand, and I pity them that.
I haven’t shut down my heart at all. I’ve simply opened it to myself, to fulfilling my own dreams finally.
It’s not “I don’t need a man.”
It’s “I don’t need to trade away my joy just to have one.”
A Southern witch returns home. Secrets won’t stay buried. A chance to confront and heal—or face the consequences.
Visit the Book Page →