S&TSG - Just Because You're Married!

I recently went to a high-school reunion. Okay, there was a big tiered cake and my friend Julie was wearing a full-length wedding gown. But the guest list was a Who’s Who of school friends, so essentially it was a Class Of 2000 reunion (even the church hall had the same polish-meets-damp smell as our school gym). The only difference now is that pigtails have been replaced by feathered fascinators and we’re all sliding reluctantly towards 30.

The night started well. I’d applied some sparkly goo to my eyelids, slipped into my favourite frock and headed to the reception with that excited anticipation only a single girl gets when faced with a party. But as I walked through the door, I got the feeling that I was missing something. After subtly stroking my hip to check that I’d actually remembered to put pants on, I was still stumped as to what was lacking. Halfway through the Jive Bunny megamix, it clicked. While all of my old classmates had come along with added extras – a baby bump, a toddler knee-skidding on the dance floor – all I’d taken to the proverbial table was my new French Connection beaded clutch bag, which until that precise moment, I’d been really excited about showing off.

This fact alone wouldn’t normally bother me – I’m a seasoned pro at being ‘the single one’ in a crowd of couples. But this time, I found myself talking to a heavily pregnant ex-classmate who I hadn’t seen since I was 16. It went like this...

Me: ‘Wow, look at us all grown up.’
She-who-shall-not-be-named: ‘I know! Where’s your other half?’
Me: ‘Oh, I don’t have one right now.’
She: [Head cocked to the side with a sympathetic half-smile] ‘Don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll meet somebody soon.’

She may as well have ruffled my hair, turned to father-of-the bump and said, ‘Bless’. What I should have said is, ‘Actually, I’m waiting on a call from a guy I met last night, I had a fantastic date with another one last week and I have a gorgeous-but-dim man on speed dial should I have any special requirements.’ But instead, I lied and said something about being too busy for a boyfriend, then nodded along for 20 minutes as she wittered on about baby names.

I’m sure she’s very happy and didn’t mean to offend me, but I don’t want to be doing what she’s doing. I don’t want to settle down with a man and find the one thing guaranteed to get our pulses racing is a change in the interest rate. Don’t pity me while I’m having fun at the moment. Why all of a sudden has marital status become a measure of success? Isn’t this 2010?

Because, for a minute, I thought I was trapped in a Jane Austen novel, bringing shame upon one’s family for still being single at (gasp) 27. When did singlehood become the social equivalent of last place? Had Mamas & Papas’ poster couple looked beyond my bald ring finger and asked where I’ve travelled or what I do for a job, they’d realise I’m far from stuck on life’s starting blocks. I can handle smug couples. I can even handle being patronised. What I can’t handle is the realisation that I’m expected to have physical evidence – a joint bond or at the very least a boyfriend – as a trophy to prove my life’s worth (and no, a hangover doesn’t count).

Facebook doesn’t help – every week a friend uploads wedding snaps. While I’m chuffed for my settled-down friends, I can’t help but feel like we’ve been forced into competitive life syndrome. My friend Ann just returned from a holiday of a lifetime with her boyfriend of seven years. She told me: ‘I went into work and the girls crowded around my desk saying, “So, anything to tell us?” Apparently they’d had bets on whether I’d come back with a rock on my finger. Even though we’d had a lovely holiday, to them, I’d failed. Why is everyone trying to marry us off when I’m happy as I am?’

My married friends are the same. They choose to drink lemonade minus the vodka and suddenly everyone’s speculating that they’re ‘expecting’. Now, I’m all for a bit of competitiveness, but shouldn’t we give each other a break? I thought life was supposed to be a marathon, not a true-love trolley dash. What’s the rush? After all, the tortoise trounces the hare – every time.

Author: Tracy Ramsden