Flying solo

It’s cliché among single people to say they hate Valentine’s Day, and certainly there’s plenty there to hate. For me, most of them revolve around greeting cards and Jennifer Aniston. But I don’t think I hate Valentine’s Day. I’m pretty sure I have no sentiment about the day to speak of.

I’m really not bothered that the good people at Hallmark© have persuaded the culture that the suppressed feast of an obscure Catholic saint should be the day to celebrate coupledom. It’s as good as any other. I guess I opt out of it for much the same reason as I opt out of being coupled.

I think I am single mainly by choice; not so much one choice, but a series of choices. I don’t believe a family life could endure decisions to go spend 6 months to go to seemingly random places to engage in usually futile attempts to get people elected to public office. It’s a lifestyle for 22 year olds, not people in their late 30s, certainly not for families. As I tend to believe the Chris Lees of our culture prove. And I have grown to enjoy doing things by myself that most would consider couple or group activities: travel, eating out, going to movies. Some of these activities are probably enhanced by doing them with someone else, but others; I have definitely come to prefer doing by myself.

I am not so certain of my choices as to not have regrets, nor do I particularly recommend them to others. A few years ago, I was having a conversation with someone I’ve known all my life and she was talking about not particularly being interested in being married or having a family, and feeling badly because I thought she would be great in both roles(not with me. It would be illegal in at least half the country and weird to the point of creepy). And then it occurred to me she was giving voice to what I thought essentially about my own life.

Will it stay this way? Probably. Right now it affords me the opportunity to take on some things that would be difficult, if not impossible if I had a family. But I like to think I am open enough to life’s possibilities, though that probably diminishes with time. And I am creeping into an age where I sometimes wonder about growing old alone, but that does not come to mind a lot.

It occurs to me that I am breaking another one of the rules I set out for myself when I started this so long ago and have just written a solely personal post without any outside world implications.  Maybe it’s because I don’t feel competent to talk about the revolution in Egypt with any particular insight. Maybe it’s because there is nothing in popular culture with less credibility than the Grammys. Maybe I’m already addicted to the narcissism of memoir. The rule is turning out to be a pretty stupid one. So be it.