never married, over forty, a little bitter

a mind of my own

I’m friends with a man who would make a great boyfriend for someone.  He is unfailingly courteous and dependable, rare traits these days,  and he has a solid career.

We hang out occasionally, but I can’t date him myself, because I’m uninterested in his primary diversions, nor do I particularly respect them, outside of respecting his rights to his own passions.   I attended an event with him recently that I wasn’t particularly interested in, and I couldn’t experience the pleasure of deconstructing it with him without, I felt, insulting him, so I kept my thoughts to myself.  Later that week, however, I was able to discuss the event in an intellectually fulfilling manner with another acquaintance.

I suppose it is unusual for a woman to prioritize her own intellectual development in considering a mate.  Women in general are expected to mold themselves to a man’s life and interests, but I’ve never been able to do so, unless his life and interests appeal to me in the first place.

This streak only gets stronger as I age.


A friend from my youth, a peer I spent my formative years with, emailed recently to let me know she is coming into town with her husband and new baby.  After several tries, she successfully gave birth last year.

At first I felt excited about seeing her, but then the doubts crept in.  My recent transition from a woman in mourning over being single and childless into one who accepts and even, in some ways, embraces my status has taken a tremendous amount of psychic energy.  The idea of paying homage to my friend’s motherhood feels exhausting, especially if there is even a whiff of a suggestion that my life is somewhat “sad” or I am somehow “immature.”

I’ve certainly fallen down on the job of asking about her new baby.  She updates me and I respond, but I don’t initiate much.  I suppose I find the parenting success of long-term friends exceptionally difficult to accept, especially the ones who seemed as if they were going to accompany me on my path, only to take a sharp u-turn at the last minute.

I’m also just not in the mood to coo over one more damn baby.  Okay, maybe a little, but I’m fairly cooed out.


Life in Los Angeles can be especially lonely because it is a city that covers a large geographical area. While the City of Angels offers its residents plenty of daytime excursions and nightlife attractions, the traffic-ridden freeways can turn a casual outing into a road trip. Not only is it difficult to meet a suitable mate, developing friendships with other females can be a challenge as well. There is an inherent flakiness in Angelenos. People make plans, but are more likely to cancel them because they don’t want to endure hours of traffic trying to reach their destination. Additionally, most people come to Los Angeles with an agenda, usually to work in show business. Success requires focus and determination. All of one’s energy can be consumed striving to achieve personal goals and leave little time for socialization.

Los Angeles is a lonely city. All day long people run errands, shop for clothes, eat in crowded restaurants, drive, work, and come home – alone. I spend the majority of my time alone, and no matter how much I tell myself that it’s a good thing or how much I get accomplished, I still feel lonely. I have two miniature dachshunds, Paisley and Rocket, and for some reason I look at them sometimes and get the sense that they feel alone and wish we lived with more people.