One of the best things about living in a city like New York… is leaving it. My friend Patience and her husband invited me out to the Hamptons for the weekend. Patience and Peter were the perfect married couple. They were fun, smart, and they looked like they fell out of a J.Crew catalog. If their house wasn’t right on the beach, I would have hated them.
Hampton houseguests are always required to sing for their supper. Brokers give investment advice. Architects, design advice. Single people give married friends tidbits from their sexual escapades.
The next morning I woke up feeling rested and fabulous. I couldn’t wait to go out and take in the spectacular view. There he was… full-frontal friend. He just stood there, casual, happy, hanging out. I didn’t know what to do or what to say. I only knew one thing. That’s way too much Peter before coffee. I barely had time to shove a “good muffin” in my purse before I was on my way back to New York.
As the only single woman in her law firm, Miranda had given this topic some thought. Charlotte treated marriage like a sorority she was desperately hoping to pledge.
Was Mirandra right? Were we enemies? Is there a secret cold war between marrieds and singles?
I had just experienced single-bashing for the new millennium. I was no longer even considered a person. I was now an egg farm. Meanwhile, in a park downtown, another woman was about to be humiliated. Miranda was obliged to attend her firm’s annual softball game. A law firm softball game is like any other, except when a lawyer steals a base, he gets promoted. Panicked at the idea of spending another firm function labeled as a leper, Miranda had agreed to be fixed up on a blind date. Brave Miranda marched right over and told Syd she wasn’t [gay]. They had a good laugh and decided to stay and play ball.
Miranda and Syd’s last-inning double play got the attention of everyone. Even the firm’s senior partner. Later that night, Miranda gave me the lowdown on her day. After Miranda left, I had a thought. Maybe the cold war isn’t about hate. Maybe it’s about fear, fear of the unknown. Married people don’t hate singles. They just want us figured out.
I felt it was time to stop all this speculation and infiltrate the enemy camp. Lunch with my favorite couple, David and Lisa. ‘I’m beginning to think I may not be the marrying kind,’ I tell them. No sooner had the words came out of my mouth than I wondered if they were true.
Another time I hate being single is when married friends “surprise” fix you up. two espressos and a tiramisu later, I learned that Sean was the youngest of three brothers, had his own investment firm, and was about to move into an apartment he had just purchased. It was then I realized, I was having coffee with the marrying guy. That elusive and rare Manhattan man whose sights were set on marriage. Over the next week and a half, I met Sean for a movie. I met him for another movie. And I helped him pick out a top-of-the-line cheese grater at Williams-Sonoma. He was like the flesh-and-blood equivalent of a DKNY dress. You know it’s not your style, but it’s right there, so you try it on anyway.
It was the night of the 12th. On the East Side, a pseudo-lesbian couple attended a right-wing Republican dinner party. On the West Side, a trio of single gals went to a single guy’s housewarming party. Everywhere I looked, people were standing in twos. It was like Noah’s Upper West Side rent-controlled ark. Samantha gave me a look like I had sold her to the enemy for chocolate bars and nylons.
As I moved through the married couples, I noticed something was different. No fear, no pity, no pointing. Were Sean’s friends Cold War conscientious objectors or was it just that I was “figured out”? An hour and a half into this housewarming, I had suddenly gone from a houseguest to a prisoner of war. And just as suddenly, our little cease-fire was over. Meanwhile, across town, things were winding down. As they rode between floors, Miranda considered how much easier her life would be if she were in a couple. Any couple. While Miranda cursed her heterosexuality and wondered how much longer she could fight the war, Charlotte cursed tequila and forced Samantha into a cab. She decided Samantha was too drunk to get home alone, and insisted she spend the night on her couch. She got Samantha upstairs and safely to bed… or so she thought. A couple of hours later, Samantha woke up still drunk and still single. And single to Samantha meant one thing…
They started out casual, a brunch here, a concert there. But pretty soon they were visiting china. Charlotte broke it off then and there. It would never work. He was American Classic, she was French Country.
As I sifted through the rubble of my marriage skirmish, I had a thought. Maybe the fight between marrieds and singles is like the war in Northern Ireland. We’re all basically the same, but somehow we wound up on different sides. Sure, it’d be great to have that one special person to walk home with. But sometimes there’s nothing better than meeting your single girlfriends for a night at the movies.