Rescued...

It’s Saturday night, 9:29 PM.  It’s too hot and despite the two fans that have been running night and day my apartment does not offer much relief.  I’m feeling bored and a bit listless. I’ve a million ways I could entertain myself or find company and I find none of them are able to hold my attention long enough to take action.

I’ve just poured a glass of chilled chardonnay and water is already condensing on the surface of the wine glass.  I’ve wandered about the apartment, dusted random objects; cleaned the futon of cat hair; tossed a stray dirty sock into the laundry basket.  I’ve sampled every type of cracker in my kitchen (there are three), nibbled a few olives and ultimately decided to cook a package of ramen simply for something to do.  Droplets of water are sliding down the wineglass stem and I know it won’t be long before they pool at the base, leaving a wet ring that I will likely find later with my elbow and suffer a moment of, “Oh gross what is that?” before I recall that it is from the glass of wine I imbibed earlier in the evening. 

I could blame my current state on the heat but I think it is due to having free and unscheduled time sneak up on me.  My life has become so full and busy that the only way to manage it has been to keep everything scheduled.  Each day structured to squeeze in the maximum amount of achievement.   And now suddenly, on this Saturday night, I find I’ve hours of open time; a void that I could fill with anything and instead of weighing all of my options and choosing one, I just sit and fidget and wait. 

The glass of wine is empty.  I’m contemplating fetching a towel to wipe away the ring of wet the glass left behind just to fill time. 

And now, “ding, ding!”

A text message on my iPhone; a friend wanting to know if I’d care for a visitor this evening and I think, Yes.  Yes please…I would, and I rise to pull another glass from the cupboard.

Not the mom...

A week or so ago I was having a discussion with a friend about how much of the basic human personality is what it is due to cultural conditioning and how much of it is due to biological imperative.  Our conversation centered mostly on sex and coupling and how while our basic instinct drives us to mate, we don’t seem to be designed for long term fidelity (the more our DNA is spread around the better for the diversity of the gene pool, etc.).  And yet, our culture has elevated coupledom to shrine status, and while many of us are brought up to desire it, once we are in it we are not really very good at keeping it going and often have to fight against our own instinct to stray and sprinkle the world with our offspring. 

Many do succeed at this, living monogamous lives for years or decades.  The human mind is a powerful thing and when we really want something badly enough, we are often able by will alone to make it happen.  We can overcome our own biology and live quite happily. 

Now, my blog post isn’t about the topic of coupling, though I could likely write pages about my opinion on whether permanent partnership is a natural state of being or not.  The idea however, did arise due to that discussion.  What my post is about is a biological drive that has never, with one exception, figured prominently in my life but which, purely by being born a woman (according to biology) should have, and that is children; more specifically my lack of desire to be a mother.

I like kids; my brother’s children are great and one of my best friends has a son whose birth I was present for and who has since grown into one of the cutest things on two legs.   And while I’m not sure I’d be the world’s greatest mother, it certainly isn’t because I don’t think that were it to come down to it that I’d be a terrible parent.  I’m sure I’d rise to the occasion.  It is simply that I’ve not had the desire to be a parent.

 When I was younger I thought that I might have kids one day, not because I really wanted to, I just sort of thought that it was required.  When I look back at old journals I actually wrote about how if I had kids I simply had to make sure I had a job that paid well enough that I could send them away to boarding school so I could travel.  In fact in one entry from high school in which I made a 15 year plan, I had myself married, divorced, two kids away in boarding school (or living with their dad) and living in Paris with a well established writing career, all by 27.  It was apparent that part of me thought, “Well if I HAVE to do this, I might as well get it out of the way early.”

While it may seem I am being a bit light hearted here, there was a time I gave motherhood serious consideration, because I had to.  In my early twenties I found myself unexpectedly pregnant.   For about a million reasons that I won’t go into here, I made the decision to give the child up for adoption.   Saying I didn’t want or was not ready to be a parent and then sitting with the reality of holding the baby I just birthed into the world are quite different things.  So, while my lack of desire to be a parent played a role in the decision, giving him up was not by any means an easy thing to do.  It was, however, the best thing I could do for that child at the time, I’ve never regretted the choice and I still think it was one of wisest decisions I have made in my life. 

Since then, the thought has crossed my mind when I’ve seen friends with their new babies and wondered if parenthood was for me.  Once I even told a significant other that I’d reconsider my decision to not be a mother because he wanted a child so much (I know, go ahead, hit me with a high heeled shoe.  I wasn’t rational at the time, I’m quite sure that in that moment I would have been declared temporarily insane).  However, the desire was always temporary and soon faded.

I grew up hearing about that tick-tocking biological clock which should be ringing alarm bells like mad right about now, but I’m guessing someone hit the snooze button because I’m nearly 40 and it hasn’t made so much as a buzz.   

Both coupledom and parenthood are things that, according to custom and/or biology, I am supposed to desire and yet I don’t (and in the case of parenthood, I never really have…I definitely came and went on the couple thing for a long time).   This might mean that I have in some way failed to fulfill my ‘duty as a human,’ but I can live with that, because in the end just as I don’t feel anything is missing by not being paired off, neither do I feel I am lacking something in my life because I’m not a mother.   

The Great Big Sex Post

“This ‘spinster thing’ you’re doing.  I get the alone bit, but what do you do about sex?”

“So you don’t like sex?”

“Spinster, eh?  I bet it’s been a while right?  You know if you ever have the need, I’d totally help you out.”

Since publicly declaring my spinsterhood questions about sex have been posed to me in one form or another by genuinely curious friends, inquisitive blog readers and of course the occasional hopeful potential partner.   While the motivation, wording and level of crudeness varies the big question everyone seems to want answered is, “Do spinsters have sex?”

What some of you really want to know is whether or not THIS spinster has sex, to which I’ll respond that despite much of my life being publicly shared across the blog world, whether or not Spinster Jane gets any on a regular basis is really none of your sweet business.  I know, I know, you were hoping and it’s still possible that there is a drunk blog post full of all kinds of naughty in my future, but if breath holding is involved you are quite likely going to lose consciousness before that ever occurs.  Now, back to the question at hand…

I could go into an entire post about how if I had a penis and this blog was titled Bachelor John, you’d likely not be asking.  In fact you’d probably assume that I was having my more primal needs satisfied on a regular basis, but we’ve already had the bachelor vs. spinster debate.    

According to various online etymology dictionaries (relax, this post really is about sex...keep reading) the word spinster originally meant just what it sounds like; a woman who spins*.  Back in less enlightened times, to remain unmarried was basically unheard of since, social stigma aside, it generally meant that one had no means of support.  Marriage in most cases meant survival.  However, taking in wool for spinning was one of the very few ways a woman could have an independent income outside of marriage and so for some women who either never found a partner, or who, even in those times, may have chosen to not seek one out, spinning was a way to support themselves financially. 

While I can’t claim know that spinster took on the stigma that it did because people may have looked down on these women, (though there were probably relatively few women who were able to do this, and many may have wanted to marry but for one reason or were never able to, they were more likely than not on the fringe of their particular society) by the 17^th century it was being used regularly in legal documents to denote a woman who remained unmarried beyond the expected marriageable age.   Eventually it came to have the meaning most of us associate with the word, unmarried, lonely, slightly crazy cat lady who, if the thought even crosses her mind, has a sex life that only involves something that needs batteries.

My intent in using the word spinster has always meant to be a reclaiming or redefining of the word that is at least in part inspired by those spinsters of old who were able to be independent and in control of their own choices at a time when a woman being alone was practically unheard of.  While applying the word spinster to myself does carry the obvious intent to not seek out permanent partnership with any one person and to embrace living life as a single woman, it also means that I am choosing to live an independent life in which I am my own priority and that all of the decisions in my life are mine alone to make.  That includes the decision of whether or not to have sex. 

So, to answer the big question, do spinsters have sex?  The answer to that is, yes of course they do…if they choose to.   Some spinsters have a lot of sex; some might only do it on the weekends; and some might even be downright promiscuous.  And yup, some spinsters don’t have sex.  Some are unable to find appropriate partners; some don’t like sex; and some are just too busy doing other things.   

There you have it folks.  Spinsters, breaking the rules for over 400 years…

(By the way…um, your lips are turning a bit blue) 

* "spinster." Online Etymology Dictionary. Douglas Harper, Historian. 18 Jul. 2011. <Dictionary.com http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/spinster>.

Living Alone (a spinster list)

I've lived in my own apartment for just over two years now and I've found that during this time I've developed some, well...some habits that are definite indications that I am quite comfortable with this lifestyle.  Actually, I'm more than comfortable, I downright proud of my solitary status.

Today I share with you a list of ten signs that I not only enjoy living alone, but I should probably keep it that way.

1. At the moment, there isn’t a doorknob inside my apartment that doesn’t have some sort of undergarment hanging off it.
2. English muffin pizza topped with sliced hotdogs has become an acceptable dinner.
3. The sniff test is the standard used to ascertain the wear-ability of clothing and to determine the risk level of ingesting certain items in my refrigerator.*
4. Peanut butter + spoon = lunch
5. I can make it from my bed to the bathroom and back with my eyes closed (because you know, if I don’t open my eyes, I’m not really awake).
6. The only reason I have paper napkins, is because I might run out of toilet paper.*
7. The dinner table is only used for its named purpose when there are other human beings present.
8. Some of my interactions with the resident felines include two way conversations and reading interesting snippets from books and news articles aloud (just to be clear, I’m the one doing the reading). 
9. There have been occasions that I have not answered the phone because a really good song came up on my 80s Pandora station.
10. Inside the confines of my living space, pants are a purely optional item of clothing.*

*These three can also be signs that one is on the verge of moving from spinsterhood to becoming a dude. I'm dangerously close...

Summer

Really...I could do without most of July.  There is such a thing as too damn hot.

Jane's Got Rhythm

There are times, like last night, when I watch a sunset that I lose the illusion of the sun dropping below the horizon and I become conscious of the fact in reality I am spinning away from the sun at the pace of a few hundred miles per hour.  This realization leaves me with a physical sense of vertigo and an awareness that most of what happens in the universe is far beyond my control.   At the same time, I know that this is simply how existence works and though there is no grand plan the universe still has a rhythm to which it dances. 

(Alright, prepare yourself.  We are about to dive into the land of metaphor and how the grand non-plan of the universe helps me make sense of my own, sometimes crazy life…here we go.)

When I left my apartment yesterday evening I had three things on my mind, the mess and clutter of my living space, my week long battle with writers block and sex.  Okay, really that last one was just to see if you were paying attention.   Though I do think about sex nearly as often as a dude ahem, with some, um, fair amount of frequency (hey, spinsters have needs too you know), what I was really thinking about was how in the past few weeks my life has flipped like a pancake as I’ve moved out of the world of steady, full-time corporate employment to making a commitment to pursuing opportunities that feed my heart (and hopefully keep me supplied with enough ramen to not starve).

Just over a week ago I left a job at which I’d been working for six and a half years, which is the longest run I’ve given any employer to date.  This act in itself isn’t overly remarkable, I’ve left jobs before.   My leaving was long overdue, I’d given plenty of notice and, unlike times past when I’ve felt the time had come to end a run with an employer, I’d actually had other employment lined up.  Though the new job has fewer hours and much lower pay, it is a whole lot more interesting and comes with much greater flexibility. 

In addition my main creative pursuits have begun to take off into directions I’d always hoped (maybe expected?) they would go.  I’m doing my best to continue to nudge them forward, which means dedicating a lot more time to them, which I am absolutely okay with and, thankfully, due to the change in jobs I actually have oodles**  of time to do this. 

All of the above is positive, and while I wonder about things like what lifestyle changes I’m going to have to make to adjust to my reduction in income, how to better manage my time to fit in all that I need to do, and trying to calm the small but very vocal part of me that is totally freaking out about all of this (are you nuts?  Doing this NOW at almost…well, almost old enough to know better?), I also know that all of this is happening because I am finally finding my own rhythm. 

Yep, just as the earth rotates on its axis and flies through space around the sun, I have my own orbit.  I could have chosen to stay in the place I was, to continue to try to corral my creative nature into a small pocket of my life, or I could let it become the center of my personal universe and go willingly along for the ride.  I’m choosing the latter and though it is somewhat frightening, disorienting and definitely gives me a sense of inner vertigo, I know that this is my rhythm and in many ways, I’ve about as much control over it as I do this spinning planet.  

Yep, this is my rhythm so I might as well dance to it. 

** Oodles, pretty sure this is an adjective that the mere use of lowers one’s cool factor by about half a point. 

Flipping the Futon...

I am proud that I live an independent life.  I manage to handle all of the basic tasks of living without the assistance of a life partner or roommate.  I pay my bills, feed and clothe myself.  My social needs are met by the vibrant and diverse circle of friends that surround me.  Most of the time I don’t give my solitary lifestyle much thought, because I like my life this way and yet, there is this one moment, this one regular event that causes me to temporarily reconsider it…

It isn’t a big thing, actually it is pretty insignificant when compared to other tasks, but it is perhaps the one chore that is made much easier when there is another body around to assist.  In fact, while it is doable by a solitary individual, it is such a pain in the ass to do alone that I have been known to put it off for months.  My procrastination is made all the more easy because the not doing of it isn’t going to cause there to be bad smells in my living space, it won’t attract bugs or mice.  The majority of my friends and acquaintances would not know at all that I neglect this task on a regular basis.   They will be completely oblivious to my dereliction of household duty. 

Unless of course, they stay the night and they are forced to navigate the mid-mattress bulge caused by not flipping the futon on a regular basis. 

Despite the small size of my apartment I have been hostess to out of town friends visiting the coast for a weekend of playing tourist; the occasional broken heart that needs comfort, an ear and time away from memories; and of course those who have had one too many on a night out and need a place to safely crash.   My door is open to all.  I will feed them, comfort them and promise to keep the table dancing photos to myself.  And I will also make sure that their stay is a comfortable one…which means that once a month I flip the futon mattress.

(Yes, I know I could ask those who make use of said futon to assist with the turning of the mattress, but if you are not already aware of my tendency towards absentmindedness you’ve simply not been reading this blog long enough.  I have the thought…after they have walked out the door and back into their merry lives.)

And so, inevitably every few weeks I find myself standing, hands on hips, staring down the futon, plotting my strategy.  The problem isn’t that it is heavy, and it is weighty, I’ve the strength to handle that.  No, the problem is the mattress itself, its personality.  You see, futon mattresses are by nature unruly creatures engaging in continual acts of defiance to prove they cannot be caged.  

For instance…picture this:  During a bout of cleaning up you spend a few minutes adjusting the futon mattress on the frame, neatening the cover and making sure all parts are properly aligned.  Satisfied you walk away to take on another task, but before you even turn your back that mattress has begun its slow, slumpy crawl off the frame towards the floor.    When you return minutes later it won’t be the same neatly tucked and adjusted piece of furniture, it will be drooping off the bottom of the frame, the cover now bunched and loose at the top transforming your living room from bohemian salon to bachelor crash pad.

…or you’ve met someone.  Someone you find interesting and attractive enough to invite back to your solitary nest to sit on said futon, share a glass of wine, chat for a time and then maybe engage in a bit of mutually consensual adult activity.  Things go swimmingly and soon you find yourself lip locked and about the lay back when your interesting and attractive new friend stops, and points at something on your leg.  A peanut.  A peanut? A peanut is stuck to your thigh and you know that the last time you had peanuts was six months before when you went hiking; and you remember eating the remaining trail mix while lying on the couch, the laptop on your belly, catching up on missed episodes of Desperate Housewives; and you KNOW you have flipped the futon at least twice since that time.  Yet here you are, peanut on your thigh, mortified and realizing that this interesting and attractive person now thinks you are a disgusting slob and hoping that messiness is not something that they find to be a mood killer.

…or the time comes to flip the futon.

There is a bit of preparation that must be done before this task is taken on.  I clear away the throw pillows and the blankets I have draped over the back to keep handy for chilly nights and to hide the cover bunching.  I push the coffee table and stool out of the way because this isn’t just a chore, it’s a wrestling match and the last time I didn’t make room things were broken.  I take a moment to clear my head, take a deep breath and….

I have in mind that if I can grab the mattress firmly enough in the middle of the outside edge I can slide it off the frame while lifting it straight up so that when it is then balancing on its opposite edge I can bump it in the center with my hip and it will fall placidly into place without a complaint.  I continue to believe that this strategy will work because it did once, when the futon was still new. My housekeeping habits are not the best and I am pretty sure that upon arrival at my home it assessed the situation and thought it would be forever safe from the flip and thus I was able to take it by surprise.  It has not made that mistake since.

What happens instead is that it stubbornly sags more and more in the direction opposite of where I want it to go.  When I have it raised it just to the point where I think I might be able to give it the required bump, it takes the opportunity to shove its full weight against me, and I am forced to release it or be pushed to the floor.  Upon letting it go it opens up, falling flat across my living room floor, making it necessary for me to flip, drag and pull it back onto the frame one corner at a time.  And so I do, grunting and complaining until, through the force of my own stubbornness, it is in place once again. 

I neaten up the cover, replace the blankets across the back, arrange the throw pillows in a pleasing way and head to the bathroom to fetch an emery board to fix the broken nail that always occurs as a part of this process.   I return, sitting down on the (now slumping) futon, smiling to myself, enjoying my triumph, happy that I won’t have to face the task again for another month.  I stretch out my arms across the back of the futon, satisfactory sigh at the ready. As my hand comes to rest on the blankets my fingers brush against a small object, an object with a size and feel that is familiar. 

I know before I even look that what my finger tips have found is a peanut…