30s Teeter Totter – Thoughts On My 31-Year Old Self

It’s interesting to read something I wrote more than 10 years ago. With hindsight on my side I can now look back at that woman and offer some words of advice. Below you’ll read what I wrote many years ago…and afterwards I’ll share my thoughts and how I unfolded to where I am present day.

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More than 10 years ago….

Every Saturday that summer the three of us split dollars to buy a 750 ml bottle of vanilla vodka – and engage in a ritualistic drinking fest. First, Dee would bring out the obligatory tray balancing three equally measured shooters of vodka that she poured into glasses of diet coke. Then, with a hardy “Cheers!” and clinking of glasses Gwen would crank up the Madonna, we’d slink into our sexy downtown gear, and drink until the bottle was empty.

Such was a Saturday night with Gwen, Dee and I. Within two hours the vodka would be gone leaving three obliterated ladies (although the term ladies is questionable) dancing wildly to Madonna, lip singing to Sarah McLaughlin and laughing our asses off at unfortunate dating tales that a week earlier had one of us crying on the other’s shoulder.

Of course the ritual stopped after that one summer and we turned to alternate, more “mature” forms of alcohol consumption, like sipping martinis and sangria at lounges in Little Italy. As single women in Toronto it became clear that when we slid into our 30s, meeting eligible, attractive and “worthy” men was more promising at a lounge than a noisy, pulsating dance club.

And while our Saturday night venues and drinking habits changed one thing that remained constant was our friendship. It was a friendship of secrets only we knew of each other, pee in our pants laughter, crazy weekend debauchery that outsiders were not privy to and bitter disputes that played off our dangerous knowledge of each other.

But now my two best friends, my two single party friends, the ones who I have shared weekends with for five years, have both recently found “the One” and astoundingly, within two months of each other.

So there I am, sitting at the bar listening to them talk about their future weddings and future children and future couple vacations, and it all became painfully apparent that everyone around me has found someone. I’m alone.

It was all too much. I left early feigning tiredness and walked back to my apartment in tears. At home the crying overtook me. I lay on my bed and blubbered – huge sobs took my breath away and tears stained my face red. I looked like a sick bloated caricature of myself. The horror.

The next morning the self-pitying crying jag kicked in again. I guess it wasn’t done. So I cooperatively gave into it and threw myself on my living room couch like a two-year old denied a cookie. I sobbed and sobbed until my couch cushions were completely saturated with self pity.

Sad story. Actually, pathetic story. But also kind of inexplicable because ultimately I think I’m pretty great. You know – attractive, intelligent, funny and fun!

After a day of moping about my friends’ newfound couple happiness I get back to my old self. Being single is great. I can do whatever I want, whenever I want. I can concentrate on my career and hobbies. I don’t have to take care of anyone but myself. I am allowed to be completely selfish, without permission.

I wish it were this simple. I know that one day not too far in the distant future the couch cushions will be soaked again. It’ll be a Sunday afternoon and as I head to Starbucks I’ll notice I’m surrounded by couples strolling hand in hand, walking their dogs or I’ll notice that seemingly every 30-year old woman is pregnant. And I’ll border on having a “freak out” moment as I order my white chocolate mocha latte. “Is everyone having sex except me?! Is everyone in love except me?!”

Most days I am in love with being single. I love my job, my pet, my friends, my apartment, my life, myself. Nothing can upset me. Other days I realize that even though I am generally a happy person I “feel” like I should be at a different place in life. I feel the increasing pressure of being 31 years old and not married, and not owning a home and not sharing that home with a husband. I’d like to feel content with myself all the time, content with my present single life and everything that comes with it – but it’s like I’m not allowed to.

Let’s explore this further, shall we?

I’d first like to introduce the unquestionably confused, self-loathing, slightly egotistical, and couch wailing 30-something you just met.

Now before I do I might worry here that you’re thinking there is something terribly wrong with me – beyond the fact that I’m single. But this is where I put my strange internal perception of me (which we all have about ourselves, right?) aside.

I’m not homely or awkwardly dull, but I must admit, I’m not perfect and not for the reasons you may have already surmised.

Here’s a secret no one except perhaps ex-boyfriends, my family and the saleswomen at Aldo know. My big toe on my right foot has no toenail because I dropped my aunt’s 10lb glass ashtray on it when I was five. As a child I spent my summers painstakingly trying to hide the deformity (usually wearing socks and a bathing suit at the same time). Now I just put nail polish on my toe in the shape of a nail. I’m creative like that.

I’m waiting for the day when someone tells me they can’t be with me because of my toenail. It would be so much easier than the other stupid excuses I’ve heard! Can you imagine? “I’m sorry Dana but I can’t see you anymore because you have no toenail. I am looking for a perfect girl.” “Thank God!” I’d shout. “Finally, someone who is honest!”

In addition to being cute, toenail imperfection aside, I have a business degree and work in the financial core of this fast-paced charming city, at a large multinational corporation. I live in a cute apartment with a long-haired white cat (of course I do) and plants I can’t keep alive. For the record, the cat and I have a love-hate relationship. She likes to scratch at my bedroom door at 4:30 every frickin’ morning. And she enjoys latching on to my legs like I’m a scratch post.

Her name is Zoe by the way. Although I’d prefer to call her Satancat.

My apartment is in a nice area that is “happening” just outside the city where there is some wonderful green space and ostensibly lots of single eligible Dana-worshiping men. I have a very active social life and lots of friends. I am a confident, independent woman who can take care of herself emotionally, financially, and yes, even physically.

I have a knack for looking busy too. I hang out with my girlfriends, go to movies and dinner, visit the gym, train for 10K races and half marathons, and lust after cute Lulu Lemon gear as I sit in my old sweats and t-shirt at yoga on Saturdays. Then I look forward to brunch after yoga and enjoy a ceremony of Thai food for dinner on Sundays.

Debt is a given. I have obscene credit card debt that has grown to accommodate girls nights with fancy martinis like the “Banana Blush” and “Funky Monkey”. There’s the bottles of chardonnay and taxi rides home, alone. Don’t forget the sexy lingerie that has hardly seen the light of day (hell, it hardly sees the moonlight). And the brand name clothing including an over-priced pair of stilettos that I just had to have. Travel is important so weekends away to Montreal and other locations are necessary. A couple of dinner parties, after-work drinks, and let’s not forget the un-frickin’-reasonable number of engagement gifts, wedding gifts, and baby shower gifts. Oh, and plane tickets to attend weddings and baptisms. You get the picture? Good.

Yes, I’m living it up in my 30s. But, actually, no – not really.

It’d be nice to be married, to have kids and the proverbial white picket fence. But then all I have to do is think about my parents who divorced when I was seven and the other 50 percent of marriages that will most likely end in divorce. Not only that, but to be with one person for 50 long years? It just seems a little unnatural to me. And yet, what about children? They would be nice. But do I really want to bring children into this crazy, self-destructive world? Shouldn’t I be married first? And, well, I’m not getting any younger. Don’t my chances at pregnancy decrease by 10 or 15 percent by the time I’m in my mid-30s? Dear God, I better get a move on. Maybe I should seriously consider the sperm bank and start putting money aside for single motherhood. But, come to think of it, I don’t have extra money, because I’m saving for a condo – which, by the way, is an act of defiance by single women these days (it’s bricks and mortar and a deed of title that says “I don’t need no stinking man”).

My job will help me to get there. Somewhere. I’m slowly moving up the corporate ladder, and it feels good to be successful. It’s OK then, at least I have some self-fulfillment. And yet…..

Somehow I expect that all this confusion will end when I meet “the One”. I have seen solidly independent women, who apparently love their single way of life, give it all up when they meet “him”. It seems it all becomes amazingly clear. They forget very easily how happy they were when they were single, how they gushed about not needing a man, and then they’re rushing forward, making plans to get married only months after knowing him. Why does everyone feel such a need to nest? Will I feel this need too? Even after I have seen half my family divorce and other people my age end what has become that curiosity of the new century: the starter marriage?

Now my good senses tell me that I won’t be alone forever. But there’s this other side of me that wonders if I will ever be in love and simply and totally loved by a man.

I guess someday I’ll find out? Apparently first I have to find “him”. And that’s been difficult.

I’ve dated many men. I’ve met them at bars, through friends, at work, on the boardwalk, on planes, at the book store, in the vegetable aisle, and through online dating.

I’ve dated men with children, men who are going through a divorce, artists, actors, businessmen, men with accents, comedians, nice guys, assholes, and I still don’t understand why I can’t meet someone who makes my heart and mind race, or who at least loves me as much as I love him.

Let’s go back to the online dating for a moment. I get to browse and click off exactly what I want in a man. Let’s see, the last time it was:

1) at least 5’11

2) dark hair

3) funny

4) intelligent

5) loves animals (dogs)

6) enjoys cooking

7) …and likes women with missing toenails.

Or maybe it’s more about what I don’t want. I don’t want a man who is needy, or someone who puts money and prestige at the top of his list, or someone who spends more time on his hair than I do. Or do I really know? After all, I have seen friends marry a partner I never thought in a million years they’d end up with.

I’m pretty sure that my high school friends pity me. They meet “the One” right away and it’s two-carrot diamond rings and white picket fences for them.

And then there’s my family. When I visit Newfoundland one of the first people I see is my 76-year old grandmother. “Nan” as I call her. It’s pretty much guaranteed that the first thing out of her mouth, in her beautifully affected Newfoundland accent, is “So Dana, are ya seein’ anyone now?” At which point she will list off all the men I’ve told her about. This from a woman who can’t remember to take her insulin, but for some reason, can remember every single man in my life since Bobby Gill, my grade three crush.

Nan is one of my greatest friends and supporters. She gets me. And she gets a full pass. It’s when I’ve been asked at least ten more times by other family members including one who has said to me “Dana, you’ll never get married.” And though they insist they didn’t mean it THAT way it always triggers an urge to fly screaming back to the comfort of my single friends who share the virtues of singledom over sticky, unreasonable martinis.

You’d never know I was suffering though. I have a knack for looking happy. Dana. Happy. Smiley. Cute. And well adjusted.

I am one of among six million single women in Canada and 34 million in North America, who is trying to delicately balance what I believe society expects for me, with what everyone is doing around me, with what I think I want for myself.

Actually, come to think of it, it’s hardly a delicate balance. I’m lucky I still get out of bed on Monday mornings for all the running around I do to keep up and to figure out what makes me happy or what I should be doing.

One day I am going to snap. And you know it won’t be because of the “Banana Blush” martini bills, or the cranberry hiccups.

It’ll be early morning rush hour in the subway. I’ll be covered in white cat hair because Satancat decided my H&M suit is her own personal futon.

And I’ll stand there with my subway-swept hair in my sweaty face and yell into the face of a nice Globe and Mail subscribing middle manager.

“What do you want from me!? What do I want from me? What should I be doing? How should I be feeling?” And a big gaping breath here. “Has anyone got an f’ing lint brush!?”

The urge is especially potent when my two best friends, my partners in crime on the single scene, have recently found someone. This news, coupled with the phone call from another friend sharing that she is finally pregnant after a year of trying. Kate is one of my best high school friends who dated her now husband ten years before getting married. I was her maid of honor. It was awkward. I stumbled through it like a little girl in her Mom’s stilettos.

Now don’t get me wrong. I’m happy for all these women but the pressure is ridiculous.

Why is my tolerance for this kind of pressure lower than when I was 27? I mean, I suppose the pressure was always there festering in the background, but is it because now that I’m in my 30s and have a good job, a decent place to live and some earning potential, that I feel I should be settling down to raise another generation?

I’m on this 30s teeter-totter, and it’s making me crazy (can you tell?).

Present Day: My thoughts on that 31-year old me

First…

I would like to acknowledge my “Nan”. She is one of the most important people in my life, and she died last year. Nan loved a good love story so I’m thankful she got to see mine unfold. Back in my 30s I really didn’t know if she’d ever see me married, but she was at my wedding and she saw me become a mother.

One piece of advice that Nan gave me back then was this: “You know Dana, I found your Pop when I was young. We fell in love, got married and had a family. He was the man for me. The only man. You don’t need to feel pressured to find someone unless you’re ready and they are the right one for you. And you will find it, I know you will. I fell in love once and experienced those feelings just once. Your Pop is gone and I will never know those feelings again. You can experience falling in love over and over again. Oh, how lucky you are.”

So, I did enjoy falling in love – many times over. Ironically and bitter sweet is that I fell in love for the last time when I found my husband. In a place and way I never expected to. All this to say that enjoy all those moments because they will come to an end. There will be a day where you will never experience falling in love again.

Second…

It really does help to know what you’re looking (and not looking) for. If you want your life to unfold in the ways you want it to, it helps to know where you’re going and what you want. Never underestimate a list to help you! I had a list of qualities I was looking for in someone. In particular, someone who would love me despite no toe nail! But I actually went a step further and wrote three detailed pages of who/what I was looking for. You may think three pages is crazy! But really, once I was clear on what I wanted in a partner, it became easier to identify whether I wanted to invest my energy in someone when they came into my life. After all, I wasn’t getting any younger and my time was precious!

I did this for my job too. I wrote down what I was looking for, but in the present tense, as though I already had it – from my co-workers, to the culture and having beautiful art in my office. I loved the allure of the book The Secret, but I did these exercises to help clear a path to the right person and job.

Third…

A cliché, but true! The minute I was happy, and I mean completely accepting and happy with where I was in the present, I met my husband. Getting there was an exercise in faith. I had to believe that my life was unfolding as it should. That I had been working hard, creating a path for myself, and was ready for the rest to reveal itself when it was ready. I was 37 when I met Derek. On our first date he travelled down to Toronto from Niagara Falls to meet me for brunch. I was so happy with where I was in my life that meeting him was the icing on the cake. I didn’t think too far down the road, I didn’t panic when he didn’t call when I thought he would, I didn’t read into every action. I just let it be because I was happy with me and I didn’t “need” him. It’s interesting how when you are truly happy, happy things start to happen.

Fourth and last thought…

Sometimes a steadfast focus on the “how” can create blinders for what’s possible. You can know what you want, but I think the “how” should be an exercise in flexibility and openness. For example, once I moved to Niagara region to be closer to Derek, I knew I wanted to work in a different kind of workplace, from “corporate” to something different, that was closer to home and not 1.5 hours away. However, I had no idea how I would do that other than apply for jobs when they popped up.

It would have been so easy to apply for jobs in the city (far away from home and my family) where there was more opportunity. But I chose to be patient and to be open to a path I would never have thought would bring me where I ultimately wanted to be.

All this being said – in summary I would tell myself to:

• Stop looking for love where you think it will present itself. It will happen in its own time and way. In the meantime, enjoy the scenery and the journey.
• Figure out what you want (and don’t want) in someone. Be specific and detailed.
• Find happiness in yourself – live in that happiness. As much as I love the movie Jerry Maguire, you don’t need someone to “complete” you. You are already complete.
• Stop obsessing over the “how”. Be flexible and stay attuned to doors that are quietly opening.

Oh, and freakin’ relax!

PS- I still have my cat. She really isn’t that bad. And I do love her. (14 years old and still scratching…er…kickin’…)

Unfolding Tip:

See final points above. 🙂