The Myth Of The Single Woman

I saw this writeup online and couldn't resist the urge to share. Enjoy



By Carolina Gonzalez,

As I walk into public spaces I can feel their cold penetrating stares. They pull their men closer and tighter as I walk by, uncomfortable by my mere presence. His girlfriend greets my unavailable female friend but does not acknowledge my presence.

A couple leaves my building as I enter. The woman’s husband is nice enough to hold the door open for me and for her. As I continue walking I overhear her scold him for having held the door open for me as if his act of kindness were anything more.

I have lost track of how many times I’ve noticed that my presence as a single woman changes not only the dynamics in a room but also the dynamics in once sound personal relationships. As I get older and remain single, these behaviors become more painfully obvious and increasingly uncomfortable.

So often in our culture single women are portrayed as weak, needy, and even crazed. Movies like He’s Just Not That Into You send implicit messages that single women must change in order to find love and happiness, acceptance.

There are at least two things wrong with these messages: happiness is not to be sought or attained through relationships and being a single woman does not mean that you are incomplete or lacking the attributes that pop culture tells us will magically make men fall head over heels.

Being single is not a contagious disease that requires curing and is not synonymous with being flawed or incapable of loving or being loved. I am not crazy, mentally unstable, cold-hearted, or a stage-five clinger.

Don’t read too much into my singleness. It does not define who I am or who I’m capable of being. And while I may occasionally succumb to moments of weakness (after all, what woman didn’t grow up bombarded with stories of prince charmings and happily ever afters), I do not spend my nights crying into tubs of Ben and Jerry’s, feeling sorry about my Facebook relationship status or lack thereof.

Please do not mistake being single with being desperate or broken. Often, as in the case of the most fiercely single women I know, it is a choice. I remain single, because I have yet to find the right guy. I am not a tortured soul with a heart in need of mending by someone else’s man or any man for that matter.

Please don’t try to set me up with your drug-dealing cousin Tito, your friend Mickey (you know, the ‘club promoter’ with corn rows), or the overly eager cashier at the carnicería. Just because you think anyone is better than no one, doesn’t mean I do. Instead, think of me as highly as you think of yourself. Be picky on my behalf.

Lastly, and most importantly, please do not equate my single status with having low moral standards. Simply because I am friends with your man or because he holds a door open for me does not mean I’m secretly in love with him, trying to steal him, or purposely out to get you. I’m single, but not conniving. I’m young, but too old to play games. And I certainly do not want, need, or deserve your ‘sloppy seconds’.

Tea Bags or Ice Cube

They say you never know the strenght of a tea bag till its put in hot water. Serious psyching. At least that's what I said in my head.

It was just 8pm at night and to some people the night was young. For a young corper new to the world of paid employment, it was late and there was a desperate urgency to get home.

I was able to secure a space on the last roll of a coaster bus and safely placed my leg at a vantage point so as to protect my recently okada burnt leg which had formed a huge map and still gave me problems when I walked. I'm almost home I kept saying to myself as the bus finally took off from the bus stop.

The bus was just approaching maza maza bridge when the bus suddenly stopped and pandemonium broke out within the bus. Everyone was scrambling for the doors of the coaster bus climbing over each other and like the typical Nigerian that I was, I joined in the race for the doors. It wasn't until I got outside the bus that I heard what was being shouted and why everyone was panicking.

OLÈ!!!

I was at a disadvantage, what with my 1 and 1/2 leg I tried to get away. Even the massively over weight iya who happened to be on the same seat with me managed to overtake me.

With my heart in my mouth I ran. I felt a pull on my hair and screamed. He tugged on my bag and for the life of me I could not leg go. As I played tug of war with the robber I purposed in my heart that he won't leave with my handbag.

For one, the bag was new - just 4 days old. My NYSC card was in my bag, without which I wouldn't be able to pass out. - passing out parade was just 1 week away; and I was AWOL in Lagos. The odds were against me. Struggle and risk death or leave the bag and spend another year 'serving my country'in the North. Hell No.

While being dragged into the bush, me still clutching my handbag like my life was attached to it, the blows started.

With every strike my attacker shouted, you want to die abi? The blows eventually stopped. 5he police camr anf I headed straight to the hospital.

I could only see my parents through one eye as the other was swollen shut.

Was I stupid? I think I was. Would I do it again? I probably would.

The sensible thing to do would've been to let it go but by that singular rebellion against the possibility of death I gained a new respect amongst my peers and family.

I realised that day that I was a Tea Bag.

Not Again!

I woke up this morning screaming ‘IT’S RAINING’.

Why would someone wake up screaming that? But that’s my nightmare.

The fear of being swallowed by water scares the hell out of me; the sound of a drizzle causes my heart to flutter uncontrollably; the rush of an unexpected breeze paints pictures of flying trees in my mind. All my life this fear has lived with me.

I arose from bed frantic mumbling and cursing the heavens as the rain continued to fall oblivious of my tirade as I shout at myself ‘Where is my towel?’. I make a mad dash to the bathroom, brush my teeth hastily and shower in less than 5 minutes. I grab the first item I see in my wardrobe put it on and fly downstairs. 20 minutes total from waking to leaving home, that’s a new record. I silently salute myself.

As I approach the express I see the traffic then the flooded road, I begin to sob. There’s no choice but to dive in with the rest of the motor users. I make it to the main road after an hour of struggle but I realize the battle has only just begun. All this at 6am! God help me.

My feet feel wet and I look down and see the water sipping into my car, I begin to pray. ‘O Lord, this car cannot stop me here.’ I see other cars giving up the ghost in the rising water and I begin to feel a heart attack coming on. My car begins to jerk; my prayer becomes louder and more frantic. As I get to the end of the flood, the car stops.

No one is pulling over to assist and in all honesty I don’t blame them. The bonnet of the car is open and so are the doors and I’m patiently scoping out water and mumbling to myself. It was then it hit me. There’s something wrong with this picture – I usually have passengers on my way to work and it was odd that I was the only one shoveling out water.

The rain intensifies and I feel drowned. I shake off the water and look up just to see the source of the ‘rain’. I’m still in the shower and I just had a panic attack.

I turn off the water and I hear it, the sound of rain.

O boy!

Guy, Am I Sick?

Woo me goddamnit.

Those were the words running through my mind 5 weeks ago on a faithful Saturday evening as I lay in bed chatting with a toaster. I have been told more often than not that I am not very chatty when it comes to the opposite sex especially when the guy is flashing his green light of interest. I can’t help myself; I clam up when overtures are made.

So I am laying there listening to this guy go on and on about his family background and I am thinking ‘dude, enough with the personal history, this is just day one, leave some stories till tomorrow’. I was being polite so I yawed and said I needed to sleep.

Week 4 - nothing's changed. It was the same old rehashing of family history and interrogating me about my family. I call it an interrogation just because every conversation follows the same pattern:

– How are you?
- How is your mum?
- How is your brother?
- Is your dad back in town?
- Did you go out today?
- What time did you come back? You really come back late o. Then the laugh.

I was slowly getting pissed, but I survived.

Today he came for a visit and we went out for drinks. I was a little excited just because the wooing game was kicking off. Wooing is the fun part I’m told. You get all the attention, you are babied, all sins are pre-forgiven and you get GIFTS. I am yet to know a lady who does not love gifts (so sue me). I have had the opportunity to witness the wooing of some friends firsthand and also partaken of the chocolates and seen the perfumes, the iPods, iPads et al - I was expectant, my time was finally here.

I took my time and strolled casually to his car feeling all fly with myself in my short jumpsuit. I barely survived the interrogative questions and tone of the questions. My alter ego worked frantically to squash the embers of my slowly building annoyance and kept repeating, ‘keep calm lady’ as I rolled my internal eyes and sighed silently.

Just when I had reached my breaking point we were back outside my house. As I was making a hasty retreat with some lame excuse I can’t remember, he told me to hold on a minute that he had something for me. He reached into the back seat and I said ’You didn’t have to get me anything’.

It was then that I saw the black nylon bag. As he handed me the bag I looked inside and was frozen in shock by the contents. Inside the black nylon bag was one loaf of Wheat Bread, one pack of Hollandia Milk and one bottle of Lucozade Boost.

I looked at him then and he was all smiles feeling accomplished with himself and oblivious to my facial expression. I just couldn’t bite my tongue so I asked, ‘Guy, did I tell you I was sick?’ he really looked confused by my question so I recalled my manners said thank you, good night and went inside.

So much for my wooing. I guess girls can add my ‘package’ to the lists of gifts received during the wooing period. Mtcheww.

I’m out.