Yes, it’s been a while since I gagged into my hand while a male person snorted snot in the shower.
While I cook it, serve it and clean up the mess, I don’t glare at the lazy lump of lard in the recliner, either.
But just to be on the safe side, I don’t even own a recliner anymore.
As a solo act, I can have anything I want for supper – even one of those frozen, loved-by-all-50ish-women Weight Watcher dinners.
Those perks are true and handy about being single.
However, just like every other part of life, there’s a down side to being a manless chick.
It is a lot more noticeable at this age than it was in my 20s too. It is difficult to constantly handle every single something alone.
Sometimes I am not only tired, I am downright exhausted with constantly being the only person rowing the boat.
There’s no one to help get the groceries out of the trunk. No one to figure out why the bathroom door is suddenly sticking. No one to help me get the car to the repair guy and then give me a ride home.
No one for me to complain to by saying, “Hey, I am winkin’ at 60 years old. I need a nap. And I don’t care who knows it, either.”
When I hear a noise in the middle of the night, there’s no male voice to say something comforting like, “Honey, that’s not really Charlie Manson and 17 other serial killers. You hear the tree branch scraping against the side of the house. Remember? Over the weekend I’ll get those branches trimmed.”
No matter how much of a feminist I am, I sometimes wish there was someone in my corner. Someone sweet who says things like, “I would never let anything happen to you. Go back to sleep. You’re safe.”
Yeah, I am definitely not much of a feminist when I wake up alone in the night with my heart beating out of my chest. I get worn out with doing it all – even when it’s time to chase away the monsters.
I am not nearly as burn-your-bra crazy I was for so many other years.
I don’t care who hears me say, “Only guys should change car tires. No way I can lift that.”
Only guys should spend 12 seconds on the telephone too.
I’m a woman. That means I’m gonna jabber until lock jaw sets in.
Last week I had a terrible cold that felt more like the black plague.
And once again, my life alone flashed right in front of my face.
At 2 a.m. Thursday I was reminded that if I had a man, I would have also had soup and Sprite in the fridge.
If I had a man, I wouldn’t have to memorize the signs of dehydration so I could gage my own distance to the door of death.
If I had a man, I wouldn’t have scared customers when I wandered through the pharmacy in pajamas, at a late hour, in search of cough syrup.
But then again, since there’s no man, I watched 462 hours of HGTV with absolutely no interruptions.