Everyday Uncommon


Things on my mind that came with the new year—or more accurately, went over from the previous one—seems to have a lot to do with numbers. One number in particular: age.

I’ve never been so focused on age. Often, I’m quite indifferent to it. Some years I remember the previous number, others, I unconsciously forward to the next; it just wasn’t important. I never felt it as such a big consequence, especially in my family—we all seem to be in a time warp anyway, feeling like everyone is much younger than they actually are. That’s what’s killing me now. Why in the hell did the last birthday feel like a weird harbinger of decrepitude and downfall. Why do I feel like am I all of a sudden right smack into old age?

Being unattached hasn’t bothered me in the last couple of years. I’m not averse to relationships at all, it’s just that there isn’t anyone. Period. Done and done. I see no point in moaning over the fact or scrambling to remedy it—as if either would do any good. My friends and family have been good with it for the last few, not too many pesky questions and unwanted comments. Since my last birthday a couple of months ago though, I’ve been feeling like I’m walking around with a big scarlet letter on my forehead: S for spinster.

It seems like an antiquated notion, spinsterhood, but it feels like the category I’m in. Yes, in this day and age, a single, rather smart (no heckling!), reasonably attractive female, can go for ages without a guy. Again, I’ve got nothing against them, I just haven’t encountered any that I find interesting and attractive.

I want to get over this pronto. I just have no idea how. Yet.

For starters, I think I will take some time to fix my hair or something. A little appreciation goes a long way and I find that making a small effort like that often produces results.

I know. I’m a silly, silly, vain woman. I guess I’d rather feel silly and vain for a bit than dried up and at death’s door.







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