I just turned thirty. I’m single, female, and have no kids. A generation ago, folks would have slapped me with the “old maid” label and made tart comments about how empty my house must feel without a husband and children crammed into it.
But I live in a time when I can tell anyone who tries that bullshit to stuff it right back in the hole it came out of. The only “Old Maid” I intend to associate myself with is the card game.
I do get awkward comments from well-meaning people. In the South, folks keep telling me I’ll start craving children the second I find “the right man.” Friends send me OkCupid profiles. My family makes off-the-cuff remarks about how awful it must be doing things by myself all the time.
Doing everything I want whenever I want to. Yeah. That’s just a terrible way to live.
Don’t get me wrong, the idea of a relationship appeals to me. If there’s a person out there who wants to intimately share their life with me, I haven’t found them yet. While I’m looking, I intend to live my life the way I want to.
Because being a single woman is no longer a death sentence or a social impediment. I make my own money, have my own career, and seek out my own social groups. I don’t have to depend on a husband or relative. I don’t have sacrifice who I am, or lie about my sexuality, to guarantee my safety.
Let’s pause for a second, and think about this. Individualism is an AWESOME privilege. I live in a time and in a country where I can be the person I WANT to be without having to worry about where my next meal is coming from. Other people aren’t so lucky.
I celebrated my thirtieth birthday by being true to myself. Anyone who judges me for it can kiss my voluptuous ass.
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