I am tired of perpetual disappointment. In my quest for a man of quality and character, I’ve dated every variety of jerk they make– even though I’ve tried hard to vet them. I’ve been broken up with by text, facebook-stalked, and real-life stalked.
Every guy I like doesn’t like me, and I’ve friend-zoned more men than live in my entire county. It’s also possible I’ve been friend-zoned by the one man I could truly love. Not that it’s impossible he friend-zoned me, I mean, that part happened. It’s possible, perhaps, that this man– whom I foolishly overlooked for 15 years– might be my soul mate.
I have one of those huge Italian Catholic families, which means 39 first cousins– mostly men– who have plenty of advice for me on catching and keeping a man. Most of this advice, of course, involves me becoming docile and domesticated, and basically everything that my fiesty Mediterranean blood isn’t. So, see, maybe I can’t help it. Being fiercely independent is in my blood– as much as being a kick-ass cook and fabulous at generating a space to call home.
Men, however, somehow never see that domestic side of me. They’re somehow too busy being distracted by my ambition, or success, or intelligence– or whatever the hell else it is that intimidates their fragile male egos.
Does that sound angry? It is. How could I have gone 39 years of single life without being knocked on the ground by bumping up against the fragile male ego 80 million times?
I have a strong personality. (You’re so shocked by this statement, if you’ve bothered to read this far.) And I want a man with a strong personality. But opposites attract and yadda yadda– which means that every man who wants a mommy also wants my phone number.
Yeah, been there done that.
(Shamefully, financially supporting a destitute man is pretty much the theme song to dating in my 30s.) So, I know I can support a man, but I also know I never will again.
At a certain point, you just have to accept that you’re a spinster. But I’m here to take back that word. I’m here to say there’s nothing derogatory about the mark. I am a spinster by choice– by the choice not to put up with ManShit. Yeah, I said it: ManShit. All that bullshit of non-committal over-critical hypersensitive cheating ass bullshit. I’ve said no.
Because I think I deserve better.
And if that “better” means I am taking care of myself and being alone then not only “so be it” but “bring it” because I’d rather be a wrinkled old spinster than miserable with the wrong man.
If ever I am with a man again, it will be because he is my equal.
Yeah, and we all know I just banished myself, in a single statement, to eternal spinsterhood.
And so I am the Sassy Spinster.
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