Though we singletons are frequently portrayed in television, movies, literature and popular media/culture, the portrayal is rarely accurate. Take, for example, a recent episode of 30 Rock. Liz Lemon (Tina Fey) arrives at work one day, announcing to her coworkers that she is "giving up" the search for Mr. Right. To that end, she wears her hair pinned up haphazardly in a "chip clip," she sports a straight-from-the-'80s fanny pack, and she has adopted a cat and named it "Emily Dickinson."
Okay, full disclosure: I do have a cat. Actually, two cats. And, yes, they are named after literary personas. But I'm an English teacher; what else would you expect? As far as Liz's unique accessories go, I know many fabulous single women who would never be caught wearing either.
Therefore, it is refreshing to encounter the rare portrayal of singles that has, at the very least, a kernel of truth. Of course, these examples won't speak to everyone. Singles are, by definition, unique, one of a kind. Not every portrayal of singlehood will speak to every singleton. And none of these examples completely capture my own experience with singlehood. But I can relate.
Today's example comes to us from the HBO series Sex and the City.
For the most part, the lives of the four female leads in this television series have about as much in common with my life as a piece of Juicy Fruit has with an aardvark. In other words, not much. I've never spent a month's salary on a pair of shoes, and my clubbing days have been over since....well, my clubbing days never existed. My girlfriends and I definitely get together and discuss men, but the conversation never takes place over Cosmos and features a much wider range of topics than just our love lives.
However, there have been moments in the show that speak to me. (By the way, they speak to me through the careful censors of TBS. Couldn't handle the undiluted language and content of the series in its original form.) When Miranda struggles through her mother's funeral in part because it's one more of life's blows she has to handle alone. When Carrie stops in the middle of her fabulous life and confesses, "I'm lonely. I am. The loneliness is palpable."
And when Miranda is mistaken for a lesbian. Okay, now that has never happened to me. But Miranda's reaction to it has.
Here's the situation: At a baseball game, one of Miranda's colleagues from the law firm asks to set her up with someone. The someone, it turns out, is a woman. Miranda sets the record straight but enjoys the game and is on her way to making a new friend. Then her senior partner steps in and invites what he assumes is a couple to a dinner party. This time, determined to make partner at the firm, Miranda doesn't set the record straight and accepts the invitation.
As she explains to Carrie later, "They seem so relieved to have finally figured me out." No longer a mystery woman (is she married? dating? divorced? widowed? what's her story??), Miranda discovers her colleagues find it much easier to relate to her. She finally belongs in their coupled-off world.
I, too, have felt that my acquaintances sometimes struggle to place me in a category. I don't seem to have kids, though I can quote Despicable Me with the best of them. (Credit my cool nephews for keeping me in touch with the younger set.) I'm certainly old enough to have a husband and children, yet I never talk about them. Am I divorced? dating? widowed? married? What is my story??
Like Miranda, I don't know the solution (she eventually confesses all to her senior partner and returns to being a mystery woman). I vacillate between helping the world out (dropping tidbits of information about cooking for one, living alone, someday when I get married, etc.) and feeling that it's none of their business or that they would have figured it out if they were really interested.
Maybe that's not fair. How could they know? And I appreciate that most of my acquaintances aren't rude enough to come right out and ask me. That leads to an even more uncomfortable conversation.
Person: "Are you married?" (expecting to hear "yes" which then leads to a myriad of other questions: "What does your husband do?" "How long have you been married?" "How did you meet?" "Do you have children?" etc., etc.)Such a conversation-killer! Sometimes I'm tempted, like Miranda, to fabricate a more interesting story: "My husband? Well, it's rather hard to describe exactly what he does for a living. Somewhat because it's a rather complex job but also because there are certain forces deeply embedded in our government that don't want that information to reach the general public. Let's just say, have you seen The Bourne Identity?"
Me: "No."
uncomfortable silence
I have no problem confessing the truth. I'm not ashamed of the truth. The lie would just keep the conversation going. (That in itself is probably not a great reason to get married--just to keep conversations going.)
Like Miranda, I sometimes struggle with the fact that the external world would find me easier to accept if I would just get married already and fit in with everyone else. (Also in itself not a great reason to get married.) But for the time being, I'll play the mystery woman.
And leave the world to figure me out.
And you, dear readers? What Sex and the City moments do you relate to, as a single present or a single past? Share them in the comments section below.
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