Past My Sell-By Date; Single in Los Angeles

Add caption

As the ads on Facebook and the sponsored tweets on Twitter keep reminding me, I am a single woman. Because apparently I might have forgotten that fact. They also see the need to tell me that I’m kind of past my sell-by date. I guess they figure at my advanced age, these are the things I’d forget, unlike where I put the TV remote. Which I actually do lose.  All the time.

I’m at that weird age that the world-particularly where I live, in Los Angeles—no longer acknowledges your existence. If you’re a woman and over 45, and especially if you’re well over 45, you’re invisible.

Now sometimes this is handy. I don’t need to put on make-up to go the grocery store, or get gussied up to go to the movies. I work at home, so sometimes I take the ability to dress down to an unpleasant extreme. Sweats have their place but at my age when I go outside into the world it’s not considered cute. People assume I’m a bag lady, which is not really the look I’m going after.

However, I can browse in shops without being attacked by salespeople. They simply don’t see me. Sales staff are trained to look for younger people who are eager to add to their credit card debt. If I was so inclined, I bet I could be an ace shoplifter. No one would notice. They’d think the stuff was just magically disappearing from the shelves.

There is a downside to this. Just trying to get someone to help when my stupid smartphone died was maddening. The last time I needed to replace my phone it took 45 minutes before a Verizon person saw me. Couples ALWAYS get helped at the phone store. They just walk in the building and are swarmed by salespeople pushing tablets and the newest iPhone their way. Not so, the invisible old bat.

Phones aside, most of the time it’s pretty okay to be alone. I have two Great Danes, a Brittany, a cat, some birds and a couple of horses in the backyard, so I’m never really alone. I can have entire conversations and nobody would think it was too odd, unless I start believing that the critters have answered back. And I’m not quite there. Yet.

Occasionally it is a bummer living by myself. When I need to change an overhead light bulb there’s nobody around to hold the chair I perch on, which means I have nearly landed on my butt more than once. When I need pictures hung, I have to ask a friend. But heck, he’s an artist and has better taste than I do anyway.

I did faint once and came to surrounded by dogs, one of whom ran off with my glasses. But at least they noticed I was on the floor. If something serious happened I’m convinced that eventually they would lick my face until I regained consciousness.

Family get togethers suck a bit when you’re an aging single. My immediate relatives get that I’m single and okay, but go a little further out on the tree and it gets dicey. My aunt recently grabbed my arm and said completely earnestly, ‘I know someone who got married recently and they were even older than you! Don’t give up hope.’ I didn’t know what to say to her. So I got another glass of wine.

I did try online dating once. But before you can meet someone, you have to write a scintillating profile with a great photo. If I took terrific pictures, I probably wouldn’t still be single. Writing the bio was tough. I was boring myself; anyone who was interested in that would probably be even duller than I am. I let it go.

Some of my friends have told me they would be afraid to live alone the way I do. Did I mention that I have two Great Danes? One of whom, the big one, doesn’t like strangers? Particularly strange men? Nobody is coming into my yard. Hell, half my friends won’t come in my house unless Murray is locked up. I don’t worry too much about break-ins.

As I’ve gotten older I do appreciate living by myself. I don’t ever need to argue with someone over what to watch on TV, which movie to see, where to eat dinner or, and this is a biggie, what music to play. I admit I have broken up with men because they had horrendous taste in music. I’m glad I did. I’m proud of it. Life is too short to spend any time with someone who sees the finer points of the Red Hot Chili Peppers. 

Murray loves Neil Young, and that’s good enough for me.