I’m Getting Away With It

There are many, many times in my life where it’s clear that society doesn’t really consider me. I’m on the edge of family photos, stuck at the ‘misfits’ table at most weddings, and rarely included in the types of dinner parties that peopled with couples. As a single, childless woman, I’m becoming more and more invisible to the world the closer I get to middle age. Sometimes, this invisibility weighs on me, and I’m sorry to say I’ve spent quite a few tearful nights worrying about the vacuums more than the strokes of genius in my life’s portrait.

This is also the sentiment of Amy Key’s “Arrangements in Blue: Notes on Love and Living Alone.” Key’s writing is primarily focused on either her own shortcomings that she perceives for being without a partner or on the things she’s missed out on because she didn’t have a partner. Those lines of thinking do resonate for me: I’ve spent a good part of my thirties worried about how my life will turn out, when it became clear it wasn’t turning out like everyone else’s. But so far (look, it’s a bit of a plodding book, so I’m not done), I am mostly feeling sad for her that she has spent so much mind space and page space building a life that sounds like a consolation prize. I can’t help but feeling a new thread of thinking emerge: I’m getting away with it, with living the best version of a wonderful life.

I have read quite a few memoirs of middle-aged single women. Whether I admit it or not, I’m looking for a role model and a map on how to navigate life and lead a good one. Glynnis MacNichol’s work is a personal favorite. Not only is she a fantastic writer but her perspective more closely mirrors where I’ve gotten with my own: without the typical trappings of a middle aged life, a woman is pretty free to create whatever kind of life she wants.

Because I am not conforming to a stereotypical cis het female life at this stage, I’m flying under the radar. I have a lot more latitude to do my own thing, make my own choices, and be my own person. When my sibling had children and the pressure valve to give my parents grandkids was released, I slid into a liminal space where no one is keeping track of me. Very little is expected of me. Most people are distracted by their own lives and aren’t keeping score of mine. I can take more risks like quitting my job, traveling alone for months, or exploring polyamory. I can show up, be present as a good friend / daughter / coworker, and quietly slip out into the night to run with wolves (so to speak - I haven’t finished reading that book either). I can enjoy my solitude and apologize to no one. I can leave the dishes in the sink. I can sleep in.

There are times when it feels like I am so far behind everyone else in the game of life. But most recently, I’ve felt like I have a cheat code to a deeply satisfying existence: one of my own making, which answers to no one except me. And I’m really getting away with it.