25 and 1

I arrived late to the candle demonstration, a reluctant guest tired from a whirlwind week and desperately in need of rest to survive yet another hyperactive weekend.  The hostess bribed me with promises of wine and snicky-snacks, and it seemed foolish to pass up spinach dip and a good glass of merlot, so I acquiesced.

I observed the other women content to gossip and page through a book filled with ridiculously expensive candle holders.  At one point in the demonstration I felt like shouting, "Does this shit really satisfy you; $30 for a five-pack of lemon verbana votives is just absurd." I remained silent, took another sip of wine, and thought about my Persian cat who manages to set her tail on fire every time I light a candle.

I drank the wine slowly.  In select company I would have indulged with another glass or two,  but with twenty-five married women in the room, I felt uncomfortable being the Other and didn't want them to think divorcees need to drown their sorrows.  I just needed another glass to wash the spinach dip down and to unwind from a pressure-filled day.

The women came in all shapes and sizes, but they were cut from the same material:  child obsessed, house proud, and husband-centric.  Therein lies my inherent  problem--I'm not cut from the same bolt of cloth, so  I stand out like a  neon patch on a pair of well-faded jeans.  Different is so not fashionable.

I'm not child obsessed; as much as I love my daughter she needs to see me as my own person with my own interests.  When I told her that we may move for my ideal job I didn't give her a vote.  I told her gently that it was something that I needed to do; she's old enough to understand that.  I don't live through her; I want her to succeed, but it won't be at the cost of my personal identity.  I won't drown in the sea of motherhood.  I make sacrifices and make decisions that are in her best interest, but ultimately I'm at my best when I'm doing my things--reading, writing, thinking.

House proud.  I can't be proud of my house.  I'm not proud of my house, and I dislike it more each day.  There's too much that still needs to be done to it, and with two hands it's a slow process.  I guess I'm more acutely aware in light of the hurricanes this past season that things such as houses don't define who we are.  Houses contain our things but don't hold our lives.  I'm also coming from a different mind-set.  No man has ever bought a house for me; perhaps I'd be more proud to say "look what I rate"  if someone asked me what my dream house was and then worked to fulfill my wish list.   No one carried me over the threshold; no one bought me four walls and a roof to cement our union.  It fundamentally changes you when you provide for yourself and do for yourself.  Men don't like that I am so independent.  It threatens them.  They prefer being in charge and providing for the little woman.  What's so wrong with an equal partnership, a synergy of resources?  I would think a woman who could provide for herself would be considered a boon in a partnership.  Instead, they prefer the hopeless ones who pretend not to balance their checkbooks and who obsess over tealights or votives.

Being in the room of married women when a few of them commented on my cleavage irritated me. My tits have never gotten me anywhere or anything, unless you count rude comments as something. I'm not sexy--just over endowed.  I get so damned angry when insecure women act petty and become incensed that a "busty woman" is friends with their husbands.  I feel like telling them to get over themselves.  Besides being fairly conscious of doing the right thing by respecting  the institution of marriage, I'm not about to cheat myself by cheating with their husbands.  It would just be sex, and I'm worth so much more than just sex. They're sitting pretty in their homes provided by their husbands and have someone who vowed to love them--do they think that I want less, because an affair would be much less than what they've got.  Hell, I probably deserve more.  However, until some man decides he wants someone unique for his wife, I'll still be flying solo.

Husband-centric.  I hear them chatter about, "My husband does this" or "my husband thinks this."  At one point in a conversation (and I was nearing the bottom of my glass of merlot), I asked a woman what she thought about the topic we were discussing.  She looked at me with a puzzled look on her face.  I want someone to encourage me to think about what's going on.  I'll gladly listen to his opinions, but his opinions will not become my opinions unless he changes my mind through valid reasoning.  "Because I say so" only works when I tell Emily to do something, and even she questions the logic of such statements. I don't need a father, I need a life partner.  

However, in a room of 26, I was the only one unpartnered, the only one unworthy of love. It would be so much easier if I could fold myself into the collective and become more like them.

I just have a hard time suppressing my natural tendencies each time I try.