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It's Friday evening and I'm writing this column a couple of days early since I don't expect to have time to do so on Sunday. Most Friday evenings I'm in Central London with a friend at our favourite bar. We go there to chat and drink and, of course, cruise. It's a friendly place and it's a rare evening when one or other or both of us doesn't find himself talking to a stranger. It may lead to a five or ten minute chat, or until the bar closes, or to something more. It's a pleasant way of spending an evening, but I would go far less often if I weren't single. I've been single for almost three years now, apart from two months in 2001 and that's not really long enough to count. It's the first time I've been single this long since the early eighties and I'm beginning to think that it's going to be a permanent feature of my life. That depressed me for a while, until I realised that (a) many of us are single, and (b) not everyone who is coupled lives a life of bliss. In other words, I have nothing to grouch over. Now I accept my single status as a fact of life - something I seek to change, but not something I lose any sleep over. It did take some time to adjust after my last, six year, relationship. There was the emotional baggage to clear out: mostly anger towards the ex. After all, he was the one who walked, and while I was aware that life between us hadn't been perfect, I still thought that being together was better than being apart. It took me a couple of years to work out that while we could be good friends, our personalities were too different to allow us to live closely together. (But, faithful reader, you know all that from reading earlier columns.) Then there were the reminders - the photographs and souvenirs that recalled this event or that holiday or the time we had done this, that or the other. Those objects that I left out soon lost their power to upset me, but when I came across those I had packed away, there would be a moment in which the relevant scene came back to life, accompanied by regret. Now that only happens occasionally, when I go over to the ex's and see something like the candlesticks we bought one Sunday morning on La Cienega or the screaming heads that I liked in Laguna Beach or whatever. And while they still remind me of happy times, they no longer have the power to disturb me. The emotional baggage out of the way, other problems of single life emerge. Many, if not most, of my friends, are couples and the rhythm of couple life is very different from that of singles. Socialising is less of a priority for two, since they have each other to socialise with. When the effort is made to meet, not two but three diaries have to be consulted and co-ordinated. And when you do meet (usually for dinner, since theatre and the cinema is something that couples do together), the evening often ends earlier than you would want, since while one would be happy to carry on quaffing and carousing, the other has a headache or has to get up early or finds your company a little less stimulating than his partner. But main problem is getting back into a relationship. For a time after my last separation I thought that, since most relationships begin with a physical attraction (at least most gay ones do...) I was too old to be fanciable. (No, you don't get my age, apart from the fact I'm over 40.) But, it appears, I was wrong. A reasonable number of single men in their twenties, thirties and forties are attracted to me and I am attracted to them. So far, so good. But the next stage, of converting sexual attraction into emotional attachment doesn't happen any more. It's as if I, and the men I meet, have lost the knack. The fact is, falling in love with a stranger is much more common when we are young - under twenty-five or thirty. At that age we have little experience of the world, little understanding of our personalities and needs and little knowledge of other people. Someone attracts us and we fall in love with all the possibilities that s/he appears to offer. It is only over the next six months or so that we get to know each other, and then one of three things happen: our personalities match, romantic love gives way to strong like (which we call love) and we move closer towards a personal relationship; or the relationship comes to an end because at least one of us discovers that our personalities do not match; or our personalities don't match, but for both of us the need for a relationship is so great that we are prepared to put up with at least some unhappiness and anger for the sake of being part of a couple. As we get older, particularly if we have been in relationships that have come to an end, we find that we are more aware of our own personalities and those of other people. That means that when we get to know a stranger there is much less mystery. And because there is less mystery, there is less scope for romance. When we meet a potential partner, we are far more likely to consider consciously whether s/he is suitable as a lifepartner. Falling in love becomes a conscious act, and because as we grow older we are more cautious in all our actions, then we are more inclined to keep our hearts in check. And so we continue to meet people and make friends and even have the odd affair that lasts for a night or a week or a month, but, because we are no longer able to make that once easy step, that affair will inevitably come to an end. Alternatively, falling in love represents the eternal human conflict between security versus freedom. We all want the freedom to do what we wish, to explore the physical and emotional world out there, but we also want to come back to a home and someone who keeps us warm in bed and loves us for who we are. If we find our lifepartner when we are young, freedom becomes less important than the happiness that security brings. But if we reach our forties and find ourselves alone, then freedom offers, if not happiness, then at least familiarity. That freedom may be nothing more than to wear socks in bed or watch a particular television programme, but when the opportunity arises to give up such petty freedoms for a relationship, it is not surprising that many of us prefer the bedsocks to the security we are not sure we want. (No, I don't wear bedsocks, honest...) And so, as the days and months click by, the likelihood of finding a lifepartner diminishes. For a while I thought of shacking up with one or other young man in his early twenties, but I'm aware that while he might fall in love with me, I would, except in the rarest of cases, be left unfulfilled. I may be young at heart (my licence allows me at least one hackneyed phrase per column), but I'm fairly old in the head and while I'm prepared to be an emotional prop for when my partner's life gets difficult, I'd like him to do the same for me and he's much less likely to be able to do so if he's only just out of his teens. So, my future promises to be one of paying extra for hotel rooms, of having more time to read and of dying several years younger than I would if hitched. I fully intend to ignore the last point and can easily deal with the other two. Besides, I haven't given up hope. But even though I'm convinced I'm a pretty good catch (all right, two hackneyed phrases per column...), I'm not waiting for Mr Right. If I'd started this column earlier, I'd be on the District Line right now, heading for Embankment and wondering if I was in time to meet Mr Right Now. Instead of which, I'll head downstairs, make myself a snack and leave the kitchen in a mess until tomorrow - one of the basic compensations of the single state. |
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| 13 January 2003 |
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© Martin Foreman |