Of Mice and Men . . . and Invisible Suitcases

As I wait for winter to end and for life to begin, I keep returning to the same topic: Why am I still single?

As a girlfriend observed, until I’ve bagged a man, I’ll have no one to kill mice in my apartment. Hmm, not my immediate concern (nor necessarily my measure of a man), but I do appreciate her unusual perspective.

I’m not deluded enough to believe winter would be less depressing if I had someone special. Chances are someone “special” would exacerbate my cabin fever, compete for the remote control, and desecrate the toothpaste tube. Yet these aggravations seem like inconveniences I should be experiencing at this point in life.

Did I miss a turn? Am I wandering along the wrong life path? It’s fine if my path is “less traveled,” but what if my path is deserted and leads to a dark cave inhabited exclusively by trolls and other social pariah?

Despite many promising starts in 2010 (remember: 2.25 boyfriends!), 2011 has disappointed so far. As I approach the end of Q1, I am at a loss to explain Penelope’s poor results. The company’s fundamentals are still quite solid: reasonable looks; athletic; sense of humor; employed, etc. I’ve seen companies with far weaker fundamentals attract strategic partners and double their growth in just a two year period. But I guess I'm not a company listed on the NY Stock Exchange.

There was that one promising encounter in mid-January . . . I was approached by a handsome young man (yes, I still think 45 is “young”) at my local pub. Five minutes of conversation yielded an unprecedented number of coincidences: a former member of my golf club; friends with my college squash buddies; and resident in an apartment across the street from me.

Before long, I was basking in his attention. The late night emails following our impromptu drink didn’t hurt either (“That’s the best time I’ve had in a long time;” “I think you’re beautiful and sweet;” and, “Can I take you to dinner?”).

At last, I had incontrovertible proof that a man was interested in me. And he was a scratch golfer. It seemed too good to be true. And so it was . . .

There was no follow up, despite my accepting his dinner invitation. The acceptance hung out there awkwardly as a testament to our uneven expectations: his, a diversion to perk up his nightcap; and mine, an exciting new beginning to something/anything, which might even culminate in the first real date of 2011.

Most who have analyzed the incident have concluded that Scratch Golfer was not ambivalent about his level of interest in me but was probably married. Married? Only a dog would send emails like that if he had a wife at home! I’m not fool enough to believe men stop being dogs when they marry, but I thought they respected the borders of their marital kennels with a bit more subtlety. Apparently not . . .

With my one lead for 2011 gone, I pondered how I would avoid another decade of eating alone.

At this point in life (long in the tooth but not totally out for the count), people tend to form bonds based on their baggage. I don’t mean by whining over what’s flawed in their past, but by tactfully comparing select life-transforming experiences that felt gut-wrenchingly awful while being experienced.

By way of illustration . . . : a few years ago I invited a girlfriend to join me for drinks with a handsome Swede I’d been spending time with recently. Within three sips, I morphed from the object of his focus to an unnecessary third wheel, as he and my girlfriend swapped notes over their respective divorces. As they discussed the division of marital assets, their eyes lit up in shared understanding. I knew by the way they regaled each other with tales of ceding furniture to their ex-spouses that they were already imagining sharing certain assets with each other. I had nothing to contribute to this exchange. My baggage looked nothing like theirs and was clearly not worthy of discussion.

But what is Penelope’s baggage anyway? I see obtuse career decisions and some low grade anxieties, but that's the stuff of petite French handbags and silk evening purses, nothing like the large suitcases most of my contemporaries are carrying. No divorces, no ex-spouses, no stints in rehab, not even a stalker in my past. Have I been living under a rock?

The thing about baggage is that while we can easily identify others’, our own remains invisible to us. How can I make sure my baggage is neatly tucked underneath the seat (as baggage should be) if I don't even know what mine is?

Whether I like it or not, 20+ years living solitary—while others married, divorced, remarried, became felons or joined a cult—has probably left some scars that others can see and that I’ve never noticed.

Maybe my baggage is not as grand as it should be, but with some luck, maybe I have just enough baggage to meet a kind-hearted man with a large invisible suitcase and a good golf swing.