Spinsters of the World Unite

I recently heard an old fact being quoted again that married men live longer on average than single men but that single women live longer than married women. Previously I had assumed this to be because wives take care of their families; planning (relatively) nutritious meals, scheduling doctor appointments and talking them out of doing stupidly reckless and dangerous things. Now, though I question the validity of the statement, I have been wondering if I my original thoughts were backward. Maybe women survive longer by living carefree and recklessly.

I announced that I was never going to marry at about age 11 and continued to do so through my teens, twenties, etc. Initially I argued that since my chosen career path was thespian, which is hard on a marriage, it would not be fair to a husband or children and probably would not work so I would stay single rather than risk divorce. No, I am not embellishing. Yes I was that much of a pretentious git 11 year old. I was even worse at 16. 

In my twenties my rationale for not marrying become more political. I was volunteering with a rape crisis hotline and a shelter for battered women and the fact that persecution for violence was more likely when a woman was not romantically linked to the perpetrator was hard to miss. Why would any woman give away her right to protection under the law by marrying? Though that argument is a strong one, I suspect it wasn’t personally true. As lame as it may sound, “I am just not the marrying type” is probably closer to the real answer.

The term spinster has gone out of fashion, but I don’t feel the attitudes toward us have really changed. Most liberal minded people are willing to accept a variety of different lifestyle choices - open relationships, gay marriage, bdsm, divorce - but a woman who has never married? Poor woman, don’t worry, I’m sure your boyfriend will propose. Why is it inconceivable that any of those boyfriends proposed (they did) but that I chose not to marry (I did)? I have talked about marriage with partners, even, and I cringe to admit this, wanted one of my boyfriends to propose just to prove he wanted to marry me despite completely understanding that there was no possible way he and I could even successfully cohabitate.

It still takes a lot of courage to decide not to marry if you are a woman. People assume you are unwanted. A male bachelor is viewed as a wild man that the right woman will have to tame and drag down the aisle. Given a woman’s alleged increased chance of survival if she doesn’t marry, I wonder if this is not a marketing ploy by men. Women do love a challenge, let’s trick them into thinking they tricked us into marriage so they will take care of us and then we will live longer. Survival of the fittest indeed. 

Love Prizes

Since my very recent break up, I have received some unsolicited, well meaning, but misguided relationship advice regarding “winning back” an ex. Again, I understand that this advice is coming from a place or caring and not wanting to see me hurting, and for that I am appreciative. It is an idea oft touted in magazines marketed to women and it is absolutely rubbish.

My first objection is to the notion of “winning back” someone, which suggests that rather than thinking, feeling human being, my previous relationship was with a prize. We met, we became friends, we fell in love, love ended; I did not enter a contest and correctly answer a skill testing question.

If you have read any of these articles or been the recipient of this type of advice, you will notice there are always steps to follow. Essentially, it is a how to guide for becoming a manipulative, disingenuous person, with helpful tips about how not to be yourself. I am all for personal growth and firmly believe constantly striving to become the best version of one’s self is every person’s duty as a member of civilization. Pretending to be some outdated and skewed view of the “ideal” mate is not the same as growing. It presupposes that all men want the same thing in a female which implies both you and your former mate are one dimensional characters. It does not even take into account the actual problems your individual relationship had.

Problems, of course the relationship had problems or it would not have ended. That is not to say that we didn’t try to work through problems, but change is very hard, human emotions are complicated and no matter how much you love someone, you cannot erase their past experiences or the beliefs that developed before you met. You cannot change another person; you can only work on yourself and your ability to accept someone as they are. Believe me; I have learned this through some very bad choices. Experience may be a harsh teacher, but an effective one. If you require someone to change fundamentally who they are in order to be with you, the relationship is doomed.

What about love? No matter how much you still feel for a past lover, once they have stopped loving you, the end has come. You cannot make someone love you, but you can definitely make someone hate you, pity you (not a positive thing at all) or have contempt for you, which is what might happen if you try to employ tactics to “win back” your ex.

The Cold Meat and Dairy War

My guy is what I refer to as a Lazitarian, too lazy to cook, he eats whatever is laid in front of him. When he first moved in under cover of habit (see Stealth Cohabitation) he became a vegetarian out of necessity - I do all the cooking and I don't cook meet. Though he was gaining weight due to regular meals and careful attention to nutrition, his mother was sure he was malnourished and starving because...well, a person can't live without meat, especially her only child person. Eventually, he went back to eating meat when dinning out or at either of his parent's places but remained vegetarian at home.

He is a stubborn one, my guy and if pushed one way, will run the other (sound familiar to anyone out there? Hands up if you are dating one) and he can be spiteful, though rarely, just for the sake of it. It is the latter attribute that is waging a full on cold war in my refrigerator. I say "my" refrigerator because a) I bought it and b) the kitchen is my domain, much like gardening is his. It has nothing to do with gender or cultural expectations, each sticks with what they know. Food prep, weight training plans, hand-to-hand combat, plumbing and feudal weapons are my things. Bicycle repair, planting and watering things that grow, wood working, guns and grocery shopping are his. Don't even get me started on his rigorous miltaresque policies regarding bed making. I've been known to fight my way out of the restrictive covers.

When my guy worked in a factory and had access to a refrigerator and microwave, I made his lunches. Usually I just made enough dinner to ensure he had a meal for the following day. This summer he started trimming and removing trees then added landscaping and decks to his repertoire. Outdoor work that necessitated the need for sandwiches or at least foods that did not require heating. I assumed he could make a sandwich for himself, it requires very little culinary skill. That's when the luncheon meat started appearing in and contaminating my refrigerator. Then the chicken toquitos (if you don't know what those are, consider yourself lucky, microwaved there are the most offensive smell ever to waft from my kitchen). When I announced my decision to transition from vegetarian to vegan, nearly everything he brought home from the grocery store contained meat, cheese or egg. 

The cold meat/dairy war is upon us. He now even buys potato chips (my weakness) with dairy in them. Nothing gives him more pleasure than eating chocolate covered almonds in my presence and offering me one about every 3 minutes. He goes out of his way to grocery shop for things I cannot eat, even though I am the cook in the house and he knows what I prepare for us will be vegan. He has no complaint with the taste or quality of the food I prepare. He likes my cooking, even my vegan cooking. Really, my being vegan doesn't effect him at all, and yet he intentionally tries to thwart me at every opportunity. The better my diet becomes, the more processed junk he eats. He's at a barbeque tonight, stuffing his face with steak and domestic beer, while I'm home, drinking craft beer, eating a decadent cashew butter and vanilla pear jam sandwich, playing music too loud and dancing in my underwear. 

Rest well my dear, for tomorrow I reclaim my refrigerator, "Once more unto the Veggie Crisper, dear friends, once more....

It's Getting All Steamy Up In Here

We consume a lot of salsa in my home, and I've never had a salsa I liked better than the kind I make. I think it's my heavy handed cilantro use. Many a wintry Sunday I've made my kitchen look like a pre-Industrialization battlefield with bits of red tomato carcass everywhere, the juice dripping down my arms, counter, cupboard door...all the while lamenting that I cannot wait until tomatoes have flavour again. Well, that time is now and I am loathe to let it slip past me, so I am embarking on a brand new adventure - canning.

Quaint, a little archaic, really, really messy and, as my Guy reminds me hourly, probably more expensive than just buying jars at the store (after all, my recent foray in making apple butter resulted in a destroyed blender. How a top name brand - it starts with a K like in kitchen *ahem* blender can crumble under the load of mushy apples that have been cooked for 4 hours, cooled in the refrigerator and  suitable for a baby sans teeth  is beyond me, but I digress).

This rekindled desire to cook, bake, preserve and generally work with all things edible has been brought on by the drastic turn in temperature from 40 C with humidex to 7 C in about a week. This summer was just too hot to contemplate anything requiring the use of more heat and I lived on smoothies for most of August. Also rekindled is my Guy's snickering about how he's "tamed" me and that he has "turned" me into a "house wife". The fact that I am neither a wife, nor a house being a fact that seems to have escaped him. (The use of house wife as a derisive term is a rant that I just don't have the space to go into, suffice to say, a woman's choice to stay home or work is her own, though I am sure most of the population just doesn't have the choice in this two income economy.) Lucky for him my desire to remain a vegetarian and stay upright, mobile and healthy prevents me from ceasing all kitchen activities immediately because nothing kills my desire to make dishes that will also feed him like being called "tamed". 

I have no idea where this smugness even comes from because the only version of me he knows is the good cook/bread baker. That former self, the one who still makes me marvel when anything turns our right, had already pretty much disappeared by the time he met me. He only knows about it from the stories, so I am not sure how it is he thinks he gets the credit for my healthier lifestyle or why eating properly, with fresh whole foods, somehow makes me tame.

Tame isn't being adventurous in the kitchen, taking on new and increasingly difficult recipes and even making up a few. Tame is eating a lot of processed barely food because it's easy, and that's what everyone else does.

I have to go burn myself over steaming pots now, and I plan to make the salsa inferno, that'll teach him.

Mind the (Generation) Gap

When people find out the age difference between me and My Guy, I usually receive high-fives, mock fawning and bowing or titles like "Queen of the Cougars". On rare occasions, though, I encounter "I could never...", which initially makes me think of a Dylan Moran bit regarding hookers and cocaine in a hotel room. I never see what the big deal is. As has already been established, My Guy is an old soul, or I'm very immature. Possibly it's a combination of both. 

For the most part, we don't notice the difference. I credit my career in fitness and a fabulous gene pool for his lack of awareness. Where I do sometimes feel like we come from entirely different worlds are in my far too numerous pop culture references. I am, after all, a Gen Xer, gratuitous pop culture references is our thing.

Once, early on in our budding relationship I made a joke, in writing, about him waking up with a horse head in his bed. Apparently, if you've never seen The God Father this is an incredibly distressing thing to read in a lively online chat. It also became apparent that he just wasn't raised right! How does one grow up in an English speaking country and not at least hear about one of the most infamous scenes in filmmaking history? And how does one then explain the scene to an already traumatized reader? Particularly when you can no longer type because the laughter has you shaking violently. Obviously he got over the shock, as we're living together (see previous blog "Stealth Cohabitation"). Though it could be a matter of precaution on his part, presuming I would not put a horse head in my own bed (he still hasn't seen the movie). Won't he be surprised when he wakes up!

*Written entirely on my iPhone so do not question any typos or spelling errors. There are no errors because iPhone autocorrect knows better than we....

Denouement - The Beginng

I planned to have a series of amusing anecdotes to share about my guy's journey from spending all day on the couch watching The Unit (I can get behind a good David Mamet play - Glengarry Glen Ross is oft quoted in my circle - but 6 consecutive hours of soap operas for men gets a little much), to a yoga accepting convert. Instead of I have one and a half.

My guy deliberately stalled and took his time getting to the studio on Saturday, opening day, so he would not have to take the class. He did, however, sign the waiver and watch me pay. Then we went shopping for a yoga mat and towel. Or rather, I shopped for said items while went in to future shop and played with mobile phones. Sunday came and I relentlessly pushed as he attempted the same stall tactics. I was determined to take the class and have huge issues with being late so there was no way I was going to allow a repeat of Saturday. En route to the studio he opined that yoga was "stupid" and that he had "zero interest". We took the class, on the way home he asked if there was one at 5 pm the following day that he could attend after work. Which he did. In fact he's been to a class every day since. Just like that, months worth of writing material is out the window. Don't misunderstand; I am incredibly pleased by his new found love of hot yoga. I cannot help thinking, "well now what?" When one prepares for an epic battle, there is a sad denouement about having victory handed to you.

If I don't having anything to post for a while, blame my yogi guy, it's entirely his fault!

Wearing Me Down and Buying Me Off

I've been thinking a lot about the stealth co-habitation maneuver my guy pulled on me and I have come to realize that he has been slowly, steadily working me over for months! He makes jokes and little comments about "our wedding" all the time. Before you go rushing to the mailbox to see if your invitation has arrived I want to assure you there is no wedding plan, or date, or even a rough draft. At first these comments made my heart race and my flight or fight instinct kick. Now they have been occurring for so long and with such regularity that they are the familiar pattern of our patter. Their absence in our conversation would be abnormal and the more detailed the "jokes" get the less I panic.

If you've read all my posts, you know my guy is a younger man. Much younger (it's all very legal in even the most conservative parts of the world). I have a son, he's grown up and on his own. My biological clock moved out the day the boy did. I love my son dearly, I am proud of him and I learn from him constantly, but his fate as an only child was sealed loooong ago. Period. My guy thinks he wants kids. Then other days he might not. So he says, but he makes comments about having kids a lot. Not quite as much as the wedding plans, but enough that I have stopped trying to keep count. To be clear, I don't hate children. I love kids, hence the making a living teaching them karate thing. I love teaching kids. I enjoyed raising mine. I am done now. Move on. Ahhh but dogs, I grew up with them, everyone in my family has at least one and I miss mine dearly (she died in her sleep at 13, the old girl was a puppy to the end of her days). So, my guy is trying to bribe me into a "white picket house" - I insist it will be too drafty - with the promise of puppies. Two to be exact. Shepherds or labs, possibly a mix of the two. Rescued puppies because everyone should rescue an animal rather than buy boutique  pure bred dogs with all their inherent health problems, and bizarre personality traits that excessive inbreeding creates. It's working, I've already picked out names for them.

Jerry Hall once said her mother told her a woman had to be a cook in the kitchen and a whore in the bedroom, well I've become a label whore in the kitchen. We'll leave the bedroom for a later blog. This is the opposite to my outlook on fashion. I wear what is a little bit different and what flatters my frame. I refuse to wear something unflattering or outright ugly just because it is "trendy" or some celebrity who was paid to do so, wore it. I believe a sweatshirt, regardless of how expensive it was, is still a sweatshirt and is best suited to the gym (I'm looking at you BENCH), but I will absolutely drool over Kitchen Aid. It is my weakness, and my guy exploits it mercilessly!

Ok, maybe I brought it on myself by not being able to pass the kitchen appliance section of any department store without having a peak. Soon he was ogling with me, comparing stand mixers. I had secret pipe dreams of the Architect but figured it was out of my league. Then on my birthday, there it was, the mother of all stand mixers, the one I had not even dared to consider, the Professional 600. Next he brought over the Kitchen Aid spatula set he won as a tie-in promotion with laundry detergent. This morning I mentioned we needed a pair of kitchen scissors, a new Kitchen Aid knife set, including scissors, now sits on my counter.

And so slowly, using the power of suggestion, endless repetition and Kitchen Aid my acquiescence is being bought, bribed and indoctrinated. I may cave a little. I may even cave a lot, but puppies are the only creatures I'll be raising. Period. 

Stealth Co-habitation

As I mentioned in my last post, I moved in December and now I finally have the wifi to tell the tale. Like all DIY moves it had challenges, sleeplessness, rain, etc. but we got through it reasonably unscathed. I would like to clarify again that I moved....or so I thought.

It all started innocently enough with a toothbrush and some toothpaste left at my place for the "unplanned" sleepovers. That is both fine and understandable, though as a person whose toothpaste brand is whichever one is on sale, I found the strong toothpaste preference to be a little on the odd side. No matter, there is plenty room in the cabinet for two pastes and as long as we both have clean teeth, I'm happy. 

The occasional sleep over became pluralized and all was good and happy. A laptop was brought over for some practical reason that now escapes me. Then extra clothes, also very practical. Now I am looking at the calendar and I cannot remember the last time he didn't sleep at my place. We never had a conversation about living together; no arrangement of any kind was ever made. Bit by bit his things just started showing up at my place and not leaving again and then one day I realized that we were living together by default. It works and we manage it fairly well despite my protests to friends several months ago that I absolutely did not want to live with anyone. My guy has completely made a liar out of me, because it turns out that I do enjoy living with him. Yes we have our scrimmages and I still love those rare occasions when I come home to an empty house - such a great feeling - but I also like knowing he'll be there with a big hug when I get home. How did this happen?

Perhaps that's the approach to take with a commitmentphobe. Just ease into it gradually, almost imperceptibly and whatever you do, do not "talk" about it!

The Commitmentphobes Guide to Getting the Love That Terrifies You

If you are curious about the resurgence in my blog writing after the hiatus, it's because I'm injured...again; one of the job hazards of teaching white belts is that they are very clumsy. A student fell on me, breaking two toes. I'm still teaching Spin and Karate, but no hiking or biking in my "spare" time.

I’m in the best of both worlds at the moment. I’m in the moony, happy, make others sick first stages of a new relationship. That relationship having grown out of a solid friendship, there is all the bliss with (almost) none of the game playing. Being with a man who does not play head games or hide his feelings is so novel to me, I get confused.  I also get a little panicked.

I might be a bit of a commitmentphobe….but I am trying to work on it. The entire reason I’ve had a lot of bad boyfriends isn’t that I’m “unlucky in love”. It’s because I am subconsciously attracted to men who I have absolutely no chance of having a successful relationship with. Some commitmentphobes form attachments to the unattainable, they pick an object of affection who lives far away, is already in a relationship or has some other large barrier to being together. This way they can have all the drama of being in love without all that messy actually working at having a relationship. I go the other way; I am attracted to guys who are carrying around so much emotional baggage they can hardly stand upright. The type who run away the moment they start feeling close, only to come back again when they sense I am getting fed up. They are the ones who pursue a girl like their life depends on getting her, and then neglect her and emotionally push her away until she’s halfway out the door, then do everything they can to pull her back, all the time blaming her for “always creating drama”. I call them Lava Lamp Boyfriends.

Enter the nice guy. After years of dating Lava Lamps, I’ve met a guy who is sweet, expressive, honest and completely trustworthy. He’s also athletic, outdoorsy and fixes things like bikes….and boy can he climb a hill on his bike *swoon. Before he ever read my blog he was a perfect checklist of the etiquette that impresses me so. We are so compatible that I am starting to think I have entirely imagined him. Sure, he’s a bit younger….ok, he’s a lot younger, but he’s an old soul, I’m a young spirit and cougars are in this season. I am not making it sound impossibly perfect, it is impossibly perfect – and that’s what sets off my commitmentphobic panic alarm.

The first round of panic came early on when discussing his Movember facial hair and he said “just wait six months when it’s big and bushy”. Granted, I don’t generally like facial hair and so he thinks the look of panic on my face was at the thought of a bushy “mountain man” beard, but  it was that harmless enough sounding phrase “just wait six months”. I don’t ever plan anything more than 3 weeks in advance with someone I am dating. I once broke up with a boyfriend (years ago), because he talked about teaching me to ski and we had started dating in May. I squelched the panic and convinced myself he was just goading me over the goatee.

Panic number two involved the perfect gift and a huge timeline.  I am a nature loving, get dirty in the outdoors kind of gal (my guy calls me “Granola Hot”, a categorization of women I did not know existed until now). In fact it was a long hike in the woods that made us both realize our friendship could cross the line at any minute if we dared to let it. I also love homemade gifts and prefer to be picked flowers than sent them so what my guy did shows just how well he truly understands me. He is growing me a tree. “What?” “I am growing you a tree, do you want to see it?” flipping through the photos on his phone. “It won’t be ready for 3 years though. There are three, I have a tree, there’s one for my dad and you have a tree.”

Breathe, breathe, breathe. On the one hand, a guy who would grow me a tree gets me better than anyone I’ve ever dated. On the other, he’s planning to give me a gift in three years….Slow, deep breaths - in for four, out for four. Don’t Panic! It’s a wonderful gift and the fact that he is thinking long term is a good thing. These are the conversations I have with myself regularly so I don’t start to sabotage with one of the many stupid things I do to get in the way of my own happiness.

I’m not a horoscope kind of person. I read them for amusement but put absolutely no stock in them. I have a friend who does. We share the same horoscope, as does my guy and my best friend, and some of the things she tells me about the personality of our sign are pretty dead on. Years ago she told me, “Pisces are like all fish, try to grab them and they will dart away from you in fear. Swim up next to them and they will swim with you forever.” So maybe, just maybe, since we are two fish and don’t have anything to grab with, we can swim through this relationship ocean together happy and only mildly panicked.