A spinster like myself is caught in this sandwich of uncertainty all too often. The seamless line between singlehood and the sparkly ring of union. It’s that fence a woman my age finds herself sitting on doing the humpy dumpty, feet dangling, while smoothing on age defining creams to ease the cracks, as the clock tick-tocks. With the lyrics ‘When are you intending to settle down?’ accompanied by the notes of Beethoven’s ‘Fur elise’ seeping through the speakers of reality.
I’m a woman and it seems at a certain age being hitched and embracing motherhood is my destiny. It appears my role to the universe is about popping babies, even better should the offspring be a son as he will soldier on as heir, prolonging the clan name. I’m hardly against a woman getting married however for me on the other hand it just doesn’t tickle my fancy. Planet Venus is treating me perfectly well and I don’t get the fixation of tying the knot and how changing my last name deserves a Tom Cruise happy dance on the couch, envisioning myself in white or the idea of planning my big day at some exotic island. The divorce rate hardly has anything to do with it, neither am I hiding in the closet, I guess it’s the idea of me being reminded that I’m a woman and my place is in the kitchen, being reminded that I may be boss at the office but at home I’m a wife; there to warm his food, attend to the kids and iron his shirt.
“You say, the world has changed?” Lets not forget that we enshrined by patriarchal and religious societal elements, where being a woman in marriage is a manufacturing plant where I will be the test tube for our off-springs. I will have a wife outfit in the closet and I may have to ditch my pants for a more respectable look for my in-laws, and even covering my weave with a head cloth. Or how about finding out that my dear husband paces the nights being serenaded by the lilies and roses as I play the role of an understanding wife, however how can I with the virus he invited to our house feasts away gently urging me on to the casket.
It’s the thought of our love suddenly frizzling away and I find myself staring at the storm solo while hubby takes a different lane. “Love concurs,” you say. But how many can agree to that, when they lie sprawled on the floor after an abusive altercation with dear hubby. Or how about we hit the 60’s and he suddenly realises he prefers a modern teacup and not the antique I’ve become, cause doing the occasional dance with missionary slippers is too old school. In the words of nana to her daughter Mariam in a thousand splendid suns, ‘like a compass needle that points north, a man’s accusing finger always finds a woman.’
“You being ignorant,” you say. Not really just a dose of realism that such things do happen. It’s that elephant in the room that I have to address before deciding on jumping the broom. That being said, before walking that lane I need a strong dose of reality checks cause, when the honeymoon phase lapses, I’ve to roll up the sleeves and make it work. And the older women humming ‘a wife endures’ or ‘a man will always be a man,’ won’t cut it.
To be or not to be- is that seamless grey line I will have to cross should I eventually tie the knot to my significant other. However in all honesty I’m very much fond of the idea of singlehood and the world of matrimony has to do a lot of work in winning me over. I believe I don’t have to be married to fit in. I’m perfect the way I am, I’m happiness personified. I don’t need to be validated and conformative to worldly expectations. So what if I prefer being the ‘Wo’ without the ‘Man’, I’m just doing me, in my own lane. So, here’s a toast to every women riding this wave, in the words of Jennifer Aniston, ‘we don’t need to be married or mothers to be complete. We get to determine our own “happily ever after” for ourselves.’

As published on my blogsite -

Published by Murunwa Netshisaulu

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