Beware the Crazy Spinster.

Oh my God. 

I just realized I’m not married.

And that I don’t have a boyfriend.

And that at any moment an angry mob will ransack my apartment in declaration that I’m a witch, before they burn me at the stake.

How dare I be in my twenties and single, let alone unmarried?

Damn. Damn. Damn. What’s an independent business woman to do?

Should I be dating more?

“Have you tried Tinder?” The mob will ask.

“Gross. Tinder is for mating not dating,” I’ll tell them.

And a tiny village girl carrying and candle in her hand will emerge from the crowd and say, “Well a woman’s value lies within her willingness to have babies,” and she’ll drop the candle at my feet and set me ablaze.

OR alternatively, 

I can be the witch who lives in the wooden house down the street. Every morning the children will walk by my house on their way to school. One day, their curiosity will get the best of them; they’ll tiptoe through my garden of carnations (spinster flowers) and passed the sign that reads “Beware the Crazy Spinster.” And before they knock the door I’ll open it and say “Helllllllllllllowwww, children,” in my crone-est, crone voice.

At least, that’s what I imagine people are imagining when I tell them I’m single.

My brother’s a family man and my mom wants grandchildren. So every now and then I’ll go over to her house and she’ll watch me hold my brother’s baby and smile sadly to herself. As though my eggs have all dried up and my legs are closed for business because it seems that I have no intentions on finding a partner to fill me with children.

Why is it so bizarre that all I want to do at the moment is write and work and read?

Wouldn’t you rather have a stack of books I’ve written and my list of achievements?

And it seems,  if I’m not dating men I must be into women. Nope, not them either.

I don’t want my mom to think that without children and a husband I’ll be sad and lonely. Because who says I need those things to make me happy and who says it won’t happen later on? My strategy when it comes to “adulting” is to be open to everything and attached to nothing, so who knows. Perhaps, it’s my millennial disposition to think that I’ll be just fine (we survived Y2K and 2012 so…)

A woman’s shelf life is always determined by her age and ability to produce children. But frankly, I don’t give a fuck about what’s normative. Women are not cans of beans and therefore don’t need expiration dates. If you want babies have them, if not, don’t. I’m not here to repopulate your village nor do I have that responsibility. Also, I’m a twenty-something and why are you so interested in my reproductive health anyway?