Single file....

I am a statistic. Now, I don't generally think of myself that way, and if you want to get really picky, we are all statistics of one sort or another, I suppose.

But in this case, the statistic that I want to talk about is the fact that I am a single, forty something woman. Which, if you believe the male half of the species, means that I am as likely to claim one of them for my own as to get hit by lightning. In other words, it could happen, but it's not likely.

Although, come to think of it, if you do get hit by lightning, you usually die. Or at least you are pretty messed up. So perhaps it's not such a bad comparison, after all....

Anyway, I have always assumed that the getting-hit-by-lightning study was designed and executed by men. Who, as usual, did not listen to a thing she said.

Because, well, I'm going to be honest with you here, [men, listen up, this is important information] - every single woman over 35 is not waiting for you to come and save her from her desolate fate. Some women are even, {gasp,} happy to be free of the constraints of A Relationship. In fact, several studies have now shown that while married men live longer than single men, married women die sooner, and it is the single women who live longest of all. I could have told them that without spending a dime.

I know this borders on sedition, bringing this information out into the open, but I have always liked living on the edge.

I would be one of those women who is happily, cheerfully single. I enjoy the freedom of not having to share my closet and my bathroom. The only crumb to be found in my bed these days is food related. I am content not to be caught in the tangled web of emotional connectedness with someone whose every waking thought, not to mention the sleeping ones, comes from below the belt.

I've never liked spiders. And I don't think much of flies, either.

Why do I even bring this up? I have recently become aware of an interesting phenomenon, and I feel it's important to set the record straight, not just for me, but for women everywhere. Because I'm not sure where men are getting their information, but it's flawed, seriously flawed, and I feel its important to clear up the misunderstanding for everyone's sake.

Single women, even if we are over 40, are not necessarily waiting to become the satellite revolving around the sun of someone else's universe. If we notice you, it may be because your fly is open or you have food on your chin.

Some background on my own perspective is needed here, so you have some context for my resentment. Way back when I was 20 something, I was happily average in every way. I wasn't hideous, I suppose, but I wasn't beautiful, either. While I was smart enough, I didn't expose my thought processes to much rigor. I didn't have money, and I drove a little brown hatchback Pinto, so I was not exuding class and distinction. I was, in a word, nothing special.

However, like most sweet young things, I received my share of attention from the male half of the species. Some of the attention I received was unwanted, but I realized it went with being a 20 something, it wasn't about me personally, and would eventually dry up and blow away.

I got married, had children, aged 20 years, and suddenly, I'm 40 something and single again. In the process, I have learned something fascinating. Apparently that wedding ring is not only around your finger. Evidently, it surrounds your life, too, like a protective cloak of invisibility.

And that's where this story actually begins. Because it seems, against all reason, now that I'm single again, I still attract the unwanted attentions of strange men, who continue to misunderstand their role in my life. Which is, in short, that they don't have one.

The realization that my life has become a bad sitcom dawned very slowly for me. I may not have noticed it at all, in fact, except that my lovely daughter, who is exceptionally observant, thoughtfully pointed it out.

For example, one evening, I was backing out of a parking place at a local emporium when she said, in an exasperated voice, "Mom, that guy did everything but stand on his head to get your attention, and you walked past him as if he wasn't even there." To which I replied, "What guy?"

We both turned to look out the window, and sure enough, he was still standing there, looking at the receding car with a wistful look on his face, as if it were a large rainbow trout that had gotten away. Well. That was a facer.

I love the British. They have such a fun way with words. According to Merriam Webster, for those who do not get out enough and are using my blog as a vocabulary lesson, a facer is a sudden stunning check or obstacle. Check and mate on that one, then.

Getting back to the story....

My daughter was, in fact, annoyed with me for being rude to some poor stranger we didn't even know. I, on the other hand, was annoyed with him for even thinking I should notice him in the first place.

In any event, I figured it was a one-off event, desperate guy, maybe just divorced and doesn't know how to cook, grasping at any straw in the bale of life's hay, I had his whole sad story mapped out in my head before I turned the corner for home, and didn't think much more about it. At least until the next time it happened. And happened again. And again. And again.

[I realize this sounds conceited, and I can only promise you that I am, of all human beings under the sun, the least likely to consider myself anything special. I am, after all, a Minnesota Lutheran to the core. Thus, my mantra is never, ever to draw attention to myself, and for heaven's sake, never monkey around At All, because that will bring God himself, and your embarrassed family, right down on you. But this is just too good to keep to myself, so I am going to run the risk of eternal damnation for my conceit and forge ahead, in the hopes that the tears from the laughter will put out the hellfire I feel singeing my feet.]

Naturally, I cast around for possible reasons why this unfortunate situation has developed. Obviously, I immediately eliminated my witty [some would say stunning] personality as the driving force. These men do not even know me. [Actually, the people that do know me don't pay any attention to me at all, which tells you something.]

I am not more attractive, now that I am mature. [That sounds so much nicer than getting old, don't you think?] I have no money, and I still have not developed any class or distinction.

That is when I realized, it has nothing to do with me at all, and everything, but everything, to do with the fact that I am Mrs. Robinson come to life. Men have confused "The Graduate" with reality. Or maybe they have grown up with the idea that a wicked divorcee is simply awaiting their entrance into her life to be complete, and they are acting on this misinformation to their detriment.

Ladies, if you want to test my theory, try taking off your wedding ring and go to the grocery store. I'll guarantee you some guy will offer to take your groceries home for you. Yes, that actually happened. I could not make this stuff up. My imagination is not that good.

Some men have found creative ways to get the attention of every single woman they stumble over. And the older they get, the more desperate the measures they seem to take. They do get my attention, I will give them that, although perhaps not quite in the way they were hoping for. But they are good for a laugh, if not for a date.

I go for a walk most evenings with my dog and my i-Pod, headphones blasting in my ears, oblivious to everything, just the way all the safety experts tell you not to. [Sorry Mom.]

As I was walking along, probably belting out whatever song was playing, I realized a pickup truck, all black and shiny, which had just passed me, turned around in the street and pulled up next to me. While not a common occurrence, it's not unheard of, and I glanced up but kept walking until I saw the window smoothly sliding downward.

Then I saw a head, leaning towards the passenger side of the seat, looking at me earnestly, lips moving rapidly. I tried to think if this face was familiar, but couldn't place it, and then realized that the lips seemed to be forming words that I could understand. I simply could not believe that he had just said what I thought he said, so I pulled out my headphones, and in my best Mom Voice [he had to be at least ten years younger than me,] coldly said, "Excuse me?"

And then, he said it again, in all its humiliating glory. "Hey. You're cute. Do you want to go out with me?" [I must make an editorial remark here, for those who have heard this story before. I have had to modify the language, because my mother reads this blog, and I don't want her to wash my mouth out with soap for talking like that.]

I must say, I was nonplussed. I am mature [getting old.] I may have been old enough to be his much older sister. Since I was out for a walk in the heat with my dog, I had made no effort on my appearance whatsoever. I couldn't think of anything about me that would get the attention of some random guy driving by, much less make him think I would be receptive to that kind of invitation.

This situation obviously called for the right response, which I struggled to come up with, being I never foresaw this eventuality occurring in the first place. So, I paused for a long moment, while gathering my wits about me, and then replied, "I am 48 years old, which means I am old enough to know better than to go out with you."

Too slowly, the window went sliding back up, and I put my headphones back in and walked away, leaving him to consider his sins, which, given the situation he had just created, probably took awhile.

Of course, this is far too good of a story to keep to myself. I don't have any illusions that I will have this kind of humor opportunity too many more times in my life, so I have told it to pretty much everyone I know. Actually, now I've told a whole lot of people that I don't know, too. I try to spread my humor around as much as possible. It's my gift to the world. You bet.

The most surprising thing about the whole episode, though, is not that he did it, shocking as it was to me. The thing that always amazes me is that men of my acquaintance, upon hearing this story, are not only not shocked, they usually agree that while most women won't go for it, if even one in ten does, that makes the effort worthwhile.

Men aren't from Mars, they are from the outer edges of the universe. Ladies, we have set the bar way too low.

That was my best "single woman" story until recently, when another episode took it's place. My new best story is about a special guy I'll call John Doe, to protect him from the humiliation, since I think he is probably basically a decent guy, if a little too desperate.

I got connected with him through work. I sell insurance, and he evidently confused that with a dating service. It was impossible to mistake his intentions, even at the very beginning, but he seemed harmless enough, so I played along, hoping at some point to benefit from the time spent with an actual policy. Eventually, however, he crossed a line and went a little too far, so I decided enough was enough, and took some measures that I thought would end the nonsense.

John was not to be deterred so easily. He e-mailed me back, asking for another quote, which I debated, but eventually decided to do, since I'd spent so much time on it already. I sent him an e-mail in my most business-like tone, explaining that I have changed my last name, but not giving any further information as to why, and received a reply that confirmed that men and women think on totally different planes.

I dissolved in laughter when his sincere congratulations on my new marriage appeared in my inbox.

The dating game has certainly changed since I was young. Even at my age, I find myself at center stage, instead of watching from the wings. It seems, at least from the single men I know, that men are now the ones who want to get married and live in domestic bliss, while the women are out of reach, uninterested in the fetters of relationship and commitment.

I'm not sure when the change occurred, but I, for one, am in favor of it. If you are going to have your life shortened by marrying some guy and making his dreams come true, you should, at the very least, have some laughs first.

In the meantime, I will continue to wait for Mr. Perfectly Right to walk through my door and fall in my lap. I don't know if he's out there, but I sure hope he isn't driving a black truck.

Last week was huge for me. A once in a lifetime event occurred, and I am still trying to get over it. No, I am not referring to the dreaded birthday, which came and went, and apparently is not as big of a deal as I had feared, since I'm still here to tell about it, and don't actually look or feel all that much different.

Surprise.

No, this once in a lifetime event to which I am referring is a truly special occasion - frequently contemplated, often discussed, but occurring about as often as a full eclipse of the sun. Last weekend my cousin came to visit, and since she has never been to my house before, I wanted to let her know I cared.

So I revved my motor, shouted at everyone in range, and got my entire house, top to bottom, more or less clean - All At the Same Time. [No need to hold your applause. I thrive on positive attention. Very un-Lutheran of me, I know. But I haven't lived in the Land of the Lutherans for awhile, and I am busily trying to fit into the Land of Oz, where I currently reside.]

I realize this may not sound like much of an achievement to the uninitiated Martha Stewart wannbees out there. So let me just pause for a moment to explain the significance of this event. I am thoughtful that way - I don't want to leave anyone behind. [Well, that and I want full appreciation for the achievement.]

I am not a housekeeper. I do not get chills from seeing a freshly vacuumed carpet, all the little marks neatly lined up in a row. I don't get a thrill from looking at a clean counter or table top, although I am often exasperated that I can never find anything in this place, and can find no room to work. Anywhere in the entire house, because every available space seems to be covered with stuff. Laundry is anathema to me, and while I do manage to run the dishwasher occasionally, it is not enjoyable to put the clean dishes away, either.

I used to have a decorative wall hanging, given to me by a well intentioned relative many years ago. [Might have had something to do with an ill fated marital decision, but I'm not telling.] Anyway, it talked about being happy to serve in the kitchen, because that meant there was food on the table, and happy to do the laundry, because that meant there were clothes to wear, and happy to sweep the floor, because that meant there was a home to live in.

Oh-kay. I am thrilled about the food, the clothes, the home. I still hate to do housework. [That wall hanging has since gone the way of the marriage it was intended to enrich, by the way. I hate to have lies hanging around the house, showing me up for a hypocrite.]

Housework, from my point of view, is boring, mundane, and never ending. I vacuumed two days ago, but I have two dogs, a cat, and a bird, not to mention a kid or two. Need I say more?

Wash clothes, and then you have to fold or hang and put them away. I get bored just thinking about it.

Dust, if you don't mess with it, will just lay there in a nice layer, not hurting anyone. It's only when some spoil sport runs their finger over it that everyone notices your table top is not, in fact, opaque. Hmmmm.

So anyway, I wanted my cousin to come back some day, so I thought I had better make the premises a little less scary. So I whipped my daughter into action by laying down the law. Which, in my case, means plaintively pleading with her to please, please, please pick up her stuff and put it somewhere it won't be visible. And then, in a masterly wave of action, I got busy and cleaned, cleaned, cleaned.

My house was a showcase, at least for a few fleeting moments, and I was reminded why I liked this place way back in the beginning. The layout is very open and free flowing, and it feels airy and light and welcoming. At least as long as there isn't so much stuff you can't walk through it without falling over something.

That's when the momentous realization dawned on me. It's not that I'm lazy, or even that the house is too big for two people [which it is.]

No, the real problem here is that we have too much stuff. WAY too much stuff. We have enough stuff to furnish several houses, and a random apartment or two. I don't know where all this stuff came from, because I am not a pack rat. I am not afraid to throw or donate. And yet, I have entire house filled with stuff, most of which I don't even know I have, and which I will probably never use again.

I have baking dishes in my kitchen that have never seen the light of day, or the oven. I have fancy utensils, ghosts of Pampered Chef parties past, that have never been taken out of their packaging, still pristine in their unused state. I have newspapers commemorating everything from the Pope getting shot a few years back [we don't need to dwell on how many,] to the Minnesota Twins winning the World Series [yes, I DO have a homer hanky, thank you very much for asking.] I have samples of my children's schoolwork going back to preschool. [My youngest is a senior in high school, and the stack is probably higher than she is tall, so that should give you the correct visual image.]

I have a storage room full of discarded pieces of furniture I no longer need, but can't really bear to part with, because they still have some use in them. I can't throw away a book, that is a mortal sin, in my world, but I have plenty of them that will never have their cover cracked again, either.

Now, I don't want lay blame on anyone in particular for this situation, which is frighteningly close to disaster proportions.

I'm sure that it couldn't have anything to do with a childhood spent observing a parent of the female persuasion obsessively squirreling away every obscure item in her domain in a jar or a drawer or on a shelf, because you never know when you might need it.

I can't imagine that my farm upbringing, where you made do, reused, and recycled everything as a matter of course, could have brought about this inability to monitor my own possessiveness.

No, good Lutheran that I am, I'm not interested in blame at all. I am all about grace, and moving past the disaster, so I can emerge on the other side a better person. I am going to forgive myself, and anyone else who may have contributed to this situation. [Notice how I did not name any names, that's the sweet and generous kind of daughter I am.] And then I'm going to wipe the slate clean.

Just as soon as I find it. Which, given the condition of the storage room, is going to be awhile.

Then I'm going to use it to make a list of all the stuff I don't need any more, so I can once again have a house that doesn't make me cringe every time someone comes to the door. I have tasted the elixir of cleanliness, and I'm not going back to the prison of materialism. Give me liberty or give me... well. That might be going a little far.

Until then, if you need anything, call me. I'm pretty sure I have it somewhere, and I'd love to give it to you.