Friends are suggesting to me that while my post about the beauty of the mundane was very sweet - and Susie said it even made her cry - they are not swayed by my attempts at eulogising the ordinary. 'Jill', they say firmly. 'Jill', you are just not being honest here'. The message is loud and clear. I am a passionate advocate for romantic love. And risk.
Look, I'm not saying that the person you settle in with, to a life of familiarity, isn't the person you should be with. Neither am I saying that there is necessarily something missing. I'm not suggesting that the roller coaster of a heart driven life is better than the pragmatist who thinks 'house and security' first.
But have we become so enamored of the idealised 'domestic partnership' that we have lost sight of the fact that the ordinary means most when being ordinary with that person who makes your heart cry out.
If we were not so driven by a constructed image of coupling up, of one on one, of the need to protect the territory of 'my' girlfriend, 'my' partner, 'my' domestic partner, 'my' wife, 'my' person - we would be less inclined to leave hateful voice mails, write e-mails we regret, and otherwise behave as if the boundaries between one person's autonomy and our need for reassurance didn't exist.
In my twenties, and maybe even into my thirties, I believed that I'd better get the 'relationship' thing worked out sooner rather than later, because after all, one didn't want to be single at 45 right? And definitely not at 50. I envisaged the misery of an older dyke, the kind I had watched with horror, as she sat on a red naugahyde covered barstool in the Oasis, a small dark bar down an alleyway in Soho, nursing a Rum and Coke, and a cigarette being the primary occupant of her lips. She was usually alone, though occasionally she was joined by a gay man I recognised as the Stage doorman at a theatre on Shaftsbury Avenue.
And she would look over at me and my friends, 20 years younger, with a look of disdain on her face. I swore I would never be like her. How she must have hated me, with a feminist button on my army fatigues - the equivalent of a pair of Dickies from the Ben Davis store, but cheaper - from the army surplus outlet near St Pancras Station.
But I'm getting off the proverbial track here. I used to worry that being single at 50 meant there was a certain desperation creeping in. You know what? No sodding way. It's an odd thing, that one becomes more particular the older you get, not less. It's as if, having done most of everything in and out of bed, you don't want to 'settle' anymore. So, it makes me wonder. Perhaps my friends who are staying in situations they feel less and less passionate about, perhaps as lesbians build greater armour around their 'partnerships', and are bemoaning that their relationship isn't 'fresh' and 'exciting' - let me just remind you. It's you that stays fresh and exciting, not the bloody relationship. And I'm not sure that most lesbians know how to do that without scaring themselves and their lovers into couples counseling.
Susie, who I am referencing a lot lately, says that my idea of a perfect living situation is to have all of my exes (well, the important ones whom I get on with), with or without their current squeeze, all living on a huge compound, within easy spitting distance. She's right. (But in separate buildings so no sharing of bathrooms). Because even though I have been called a 'territorial Australian Cattle Dog', I have a visceral reaction to the concept of serial monogamy. I'm more an English Border Collie, prone to staring and analysing until you can't handle it one second more.
It isn't sexual jealousy that drives this herder, it's the fear of losing the flock.
You really do tickle me sometimes. Interesting that you should be writing this (and I'm reading) as I am getting myself into...something. Interesting.
Posted by: Deborah | April 23, 2007 at 02:50 PM
Well, Deborah - as I read you also, I know you're getting into something! She sounds like fun!
Posted by: Jill | April 23, 2007 at 05:40 PM