Its Time To Let The Other Shoe Drop

There are women that, if given the ability, would buy every pair of shoes in the store if they could. Others, such as myself, would be drawn to only one particular pair. It doesn’t matter if its a red stiletto that screams sex or a pair of black square toed flats that might has well be standard issued at a nunnery. The point is that women have a chosen method of picking things they desire whether it be shoes or men. Either way, somewhere along the line you are going to wind up with a heel. 

I recently made the mistake of entering the heart-hazardous world of dating. Being a one shoe kind of gal the dating world is leaving me with nothing but blisters. It feels wrong somehow to go out with a man, exchange intimate details about one another’s lives, kiss and then somehow just go about your separate ways and begin the process again anew. I’m assured by friends that this is how its done and more importantly that this is how I find someone who is the perfect fit for me. No matter how hard they try to sell the process to me, in the end, it comes out sounding morally repugnant. 

In old black and white or technicolor films you never see Fred Astaire of Frank Sinatra lean into their dates, whisper sweet nothings into their ear and then disappear. No. Never. Granted, one doesn’t exactly expect men today to burst into a musical number the moment we answer the door for them or pick up the phone but you have to admit the romance is definitely gone in today’s society. Its not as though women have dropped the ball. We, from all accounts that I’ve seen and heard, are still out buying first date outfits, spending hours on our hair so that it will look just so, smiling beautifully even if we’re utterly exhausted and even sucking in for hours at a time just so that we can wear our “skinny jeans.” And for what? Its time to exhale ladies. Save your breath.

Since my last relationship I’ve been on dates with a few different men. None of which I can explain or rationalize post-date. Its not as though they aren’t interesting people in their own rite, its just that, in the shoe store analogy of things, they would be the half sizes. You know very well that you are a ten but for some reason you find yourself trying to walk out with a nine and a half, or worse yet, a ten and a half. One leaves you feeling cramped and uncomfortable and the other leaves you feeling loose. Believe you me, loose is a great sensation for a little while until before you know it you’ve lost your “sole.” You get the picture. In such I bide my time and wait for my own personal Cary Grant, minus his unfortunate choice of sexual orientation, to arrive. A man I won’t need to break in or worry about return policies on. I want an MGM technicolor come to life. I’m a woman desperately in need of something light, happy and romantic where I’m swept off my feet by a charming, caring gentleman who doesn't leave me feeling like the other shoe is going to drop at any moment. The downside? I don’t think he comes in my size.

Putting Things In Spinsterspective

In the South marriage and children are taught as stepping stones during a young girl’s life that without accomplishing make it seemingly impossible to continue the journey to adulthood and beyond. Without marriage and children one is considered incomplete as a woman. Its accepted knowledge on this side of the Mason-Dixon line that most are to marry in their early twenties. At thirty the stepping stones that, as girls, we are taught to reach for seem harder to find than a yankee at a Nascar race. Some find them. Some think they’ve found solid footing and then slip off faster than syrup on a hoecake. Others, simply give up or bide time with girlish hopes of china patterns and designing bridesmaid dresses. Personally, I’m partial to the women that face facts. Then again, thats probably because I am one of “those women.” I didn’t find my stepping stones and in such, at the fated age of twenty-nine, I am no closer to marriage or children than I am to understanding why its so all-mighty important here in the land of Civil War reenactments and Piggly Wiggly’s that anything with a uterus and a sufficient bank account be a member of the Junior League. 

You can cover them in eyelet and lace and let them serve you icebox cookies and lemonade all day but deep down in the heart of every cornbread loving Christian lady there lurks more judgement for the single girl than a Baptist preacher standing over a pew of sinners. We, the unmarried, are marked by our bare left ring finger. Although, at certain social functions this naked finger isn’t the one we wish we could thrust at people but rather the finger just to the right of it. Why? Married women have the unique ability to make situations unbearably uncomfortable for bachelorettes. Conversations centered around car seats, strollers and husband’s bosses either become increased in your presence, or worse, halted as they smile at you and inquire how your dating life is going. Because yes, thats always the topic one loves discussing at social gathering with relative groups of strangers. No. To be clear, there is no way to win on this subject of discussion. Either A, dating is incredibly successful. This means, at least in the bible belt, that you’ve met “the one” and pretty soon you’ll be able to join in on their witty repertoire regarding car seats. However, a girl must be careful on how enthusiastic she is regarding her successful dating or she will wind up regarded as the town tramp and treated like a social leper. The only other option is answer B, dating is not going well. This means that you are securing your social status as a spinster and once your back is turned the woman who just lovingly told you, “He’s out there somewhere, don’t you worry.” is going to shake her head and ask if anyone else noticed just how old your looking these days. This leaves you to linger by the punch bowl questioning your life choices and wondering just how many inches, and how long, it will take for your breasts to drop to your waist. 

There are certain social circles in which women have skipped the first stepping stone of marriage and leapt right into having children, however, in the land of sweet tea and honey butter biscuits this doesn’t win you any favors. However, you do get the gift of enjoying at least part of the two step process we are brought up to believe makes us complete as a woman. Even if it is just the latter half. You might say I’m like a bowl of cold grits. Socially, I’m no longer viewed as hot and “on the menu” but somewhere along the line someone might just warm me up. Who’s to say? I myself never felt comfortable with the concept of marriage and children making me complete as a woman, probably because the idea of my requiring a man for anything I needed in life infuriated me, but even now the concept still feels unjust. Perhaps it is true. I can understand where having a child would make you feel like more of a woman. I’m willing to even allow the idea of a man falling in love with me making me feel more like a woman. Its just the word “complete” that trips me up every time. Maybe its because I can’t reach those last two stepping stones on my journey to womanhood and that its no fault of my own. Either way, its like a plate of beignets without powdered sugar on top. Its just not right. 

The life of a bachelorette is exactly like that of a bachelor except for one key difference, just like they missed out on the humiliation of the training bra and the all night maxi pad they also escape free and clear from any social stigma. Rather than pitied bachelors are practically heralded and passed around as beacons of manhood and desirability to we unmarrieds. Amusing. The single man is considered more enticing than a sale on camo at Wal-Mart while the single woman is considered tragic. The Southern bachelorette fends for herself at parties and other social events. Holds her chin up at the office. She manages to attend countless bridal and baby showers not to mention the weddings and christenings that follow them. Some manage these socially harrowing tasks better than others, some end up crying in a darkened corner of a screen porch into their sweet tea, I myself do just fine. I’ve learned over time, and despite the scarlet S for spinster seemingly emblazoned across my chest wherever I go, that even though I’m not considered complete as a woman that I do consider myself complete as a person. I don’t need exact stepping stones to my life. I didn’t set that path, some hoop-skirted mammy raised society types did back in the days of chaperones and coming out balls. Dixieland be damned, I’m going to make my own trail. And if you don’t like it, you can kiss my grits!

The Girdle Hurdle

What is it about a diet that will drive educated woman relatively insane? In efforts, often futile, to tame and maintain the female form we are willing to try just about anything if it will take off that last ten pounds. Lemonade diet. Cabbage soup diet. Grapefruit diet. Hell, if you told certain women that they would knock off five pounds instantly  by simply soaking in a tub of pig urine for an hour I can almost guarantee they would be stripped down to their knickers and ready to hop in before you could say, “oink.” And why, oh why, do we treat fitting into our “skinny jeans” once again as though it were an event that should merit national attention on Fox News or CNN? What's led to this girdle hurdle? 

Once during college, in attempts to lose some of the weight accumulated by my late night ritual of cheese fries at Denny's, I tried the vegetable soup diet. I like soup. I like vegetables (granted I preferred them deep fried but thats beside the point). The diet seemed like a no-brainer. After five days of eating nothing but homemade vegetable soup (essentially watered down broth and a very specific list of veggies) the only thing I had lost was my self respect. I checked the mirror first thing every morning, certain that at least one of my three chins would be missing, but nothing ever changed. Aside from losing a few pounds of water weight, presumably from tears cried at the sight of others eating solid foods, the only change my fad diet gave me was an odd orange tint to my skin courtesy of the obscene amount of carrots in my system. Could I have gone to the university gym for a week and worked out to lose weight? Sure. But wheres the absurdity in that? I’d sooner drink nothing but water with lemon and cayenne pepper for three days. Which, amusingly enough, I did sometime later. 

Diets have more rituals than the Catholic church. The Pope himself would be impressed at the time and reverence certain women, including myself at times, hand over to the dieting gods. For example, the night before the diet starts there is always a last supper. This generally carb-laden artery stopping dinner is the female farewell to the foods she will no longer allow herself to eat in order to lose weight. Another ritual is to find your motivational source. Motivation rituals vary from woman to woman. I’ve seen everything from bikinis taped to refrigerator doors, bathroom scales with the word “Fat” emblazoned across it in red sharpie, buying clothing one to two sizes too small and then vowing not to stop until it fits, I’ve even seen collages made from photos of the woman during her skinnier (and if you ask her, surely happier) years. My own personal favorite I learned from a sorority sister when I was a freshman. I place a bathroom scale in front of the refrigerator. If I have the nerve to step on that, read the weight, and still make a grab for the Ben & Jerry's I figure there’s a damn good reason. In those instances its best not to stand between the pint and myself and just hand me a spoon. After all, as I’ve said before, sometimes diets drive educated women relatively insane. 

Working out and eating healthy. Calories in equal calories out. Its a lifestyle choice not a diet. All of these saying are infuriating to the dieting woman. Its not rocket science. Eating nothing but celery sticks and drinking a gallon of water per day is clearly not a recommended way to live, at least if you would like a bone density level stronger than your ten calorie cup of Jello. However, I can guarantee you there is a woman out there in the world right now cutting up a grapefruit and rationing out her portion for the day. Why? Because that is all she will be having today. None of this makes sense but it doesn’t stop us. Its the same mangled mentality that has me going through the Whataburger drive-thru and ordering a number six with a diet Coke. Its nuttier than the woman drooling over a loaf of bread because she’s been on a no carb diet, yet this urge to drop weight and drop it quickly has been going on for years. When I was younger my mother was in a constant search for how to shed those last few stubborn pounds as was her mother and I’m sure her mother before her. Apparently with ovaries comes absurdity. Who knew? I’m certain, just as I’m certain that diet pills do nothing but make you shake like a Parkinson's patient, that most women will always share a common desire to lose weight. Blame media pressure to be thin. Blame husbands and boyfriends who don’t understand the concept of gravity and stretch marks or even blame your next door neighbor’s wife who had the nerve to lose ten pounds in a week but won’t tell you how she did it. Be it five pounds or fifty dieting history shows that most anything will be, and has been, tried. In the dieting olympics of womanhood we are all vying to bring home the gold. To win. To triumph over the evils of back fat and cellulite and laugh in the face of love handles. However, its those girdle hurdles that get us every time.