Eleanor Rigby

It's funny how a casual conversation with my mother can burst me into tears, however inadvertently the comment is made. This time, the conversation isn't even about my life, but about my 40-something, never married aunt who is experiencing a health difficulty. I coo my sympathy like the mourning dove that lived in the ivy of my bedroom window one spring and ask about her, if she's heard anything. My mother questions the magnitude of her reaction and suggests that perhaps her youngest sister may be making a bigger deal of it than need be for the attention. "Well, it must be tough for her though, being alone like that," she goes on, "I'm sure it's kind of scary."

THUD. There goes my heart asplatter on the floor, like only my mother can manage to do. I unsuccessfully swallow the lump in my throat. "Yeahhhhh...it must be...wonder what that must be like?" I reply, unable to contain my bitter sarcasm as I follow up with my typical forced chuckle to sound more lighthearted about it than I am. The throat lump turns liquid and the tears crest my eyelids silently and I thank God I'm on the phone and not in front of her.

SPINSTER. I hate that word. It hangs in the air like a horrible curse, a cautionary tale, a fate worse than death. A life spent alone without romantic or domestic partnership. A single income. An unused womb, despite its fervent urge to be filled with children, knowing forever that you would have made a good mother. Going to the movies by yourself, collecting weird ceramic crap, making people watch your boring vacation slide shows, owning lots of cats. Hating Valentine's Day for the rest of your life. Shopping on QVC, tables for one, or worse, tables for 3 or 5 or 7 as your friends slowly couple off and make pitious attempts to still include you. Endless wedding showers and bachelorette parties and baby showers; you make your best attempt to be gracious and not constantly wonder what it is that she did to deserve it and not you. Family members whispering worriedly and unfounded rumors that you may be a lesbian or something, as if that would be a more satisfying explanation than "Simply no one that I want seems to want me back, and I don't know what I'm doing wrong."

Feeling like you're disappointing everyone, and wanting to stab people (especially guys) who tell you, "I don't know why no one's snatched you up; you're such a catch!" Choking to death on a piece of food because no one's there to give you the Heimlich, or cracking your skull open and bleeding out/slowly drowning in your own shower. Your death only discovered days later when the neighbors become concerned about the smell drifting out into the hallway. Fucking Eleanor Rigby. I know that shit's morbid, but these are honestly the thoughts and fears that shoot through my mind like the crappy laser effects in a sci-fi movie. I try to stop myself from worrying and thinking these things, try to tell myself Mr. Right is right around the corner, but I'm 28 and only moderately pretty, and it's all downhill from here.

My mother finally realizes who she's talking to and proceeds to backpedal: "Well, you have your buddies and stuff..." she offers lamely. I assume she's referring to my gay friends/roommates (who are essentially as married as the law will allow them to be). Translation: "Well, you're at least enough of a faghag to live with someone else." I assume this is supposed to suffice as consolation, but it only makes me cry harder. "Yeah, but it's not like I have anyone forever," my voice cracks. I have now blown my cover, and it is clear that my mother has made me cry. I hate this. "I know, honey, they're partnered and it's not the same thing, I know. And of course, that's what we want for you too."

This is not helping. "Well, your father's almost done eating his popcicle, so I'm gonna pass the phone to him. I always joke that him eating the popcicle in bed is like our foreplay, hahahaha!"

Okay, did my mother just make me cry, make me feel guilty for feeling sorry for myself, make me feel guilty for not finding someone and fulfilling their dreams for me, and then unnecessarily insinuate/fucked-upedly "brag" that she was about to have sex with my father in the space of a 3 minute conversation?!? Yep.

Please contact me if you'd like to donate to my therapy fund.