Saying Goodbye to Spinsterhood: ‘Perhaps I’m Worried I Will Fail at Marriage’ (Exclusive)

I am in the big, white dress, and the music begins to play. The doors open and my family is so happy. My friends are so happy. There is a ring on my finger that, to quote Rhett Butler, is the biggest and most vulgar ring in Atlanta (Maine), and a six-course, all-cheese dinner is awaiting us afterward. Mostly, there is a wonderful man, kind and gentle and strong, who loves me, who is thrilled to marry me, at the end of the aisle. 

I hate all of it. 

I remember this dream from early childhood, probably as soon as I knew what weddings were. It haunted me through my adolescence and young adulthood for days on end, or lay dormant for months, even years, until it reappeared and reminded me that marriage was a trap, weddings were a racket, and spinsterhood was my calling.  

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I never felt the dream was a nightmare; more a statement of truth. Marriage wasn’t for me, no matter what popular culture and Hallmark movies would have me believe. I built a life in which I lived and worked all over the world, smiling sympathetically to the weepy, long-distance relationship-holders I met, wondering why they bothered. I studied languages, envious of those who married into multi-lingual families.  Proximity and necessity are key to foreign language acquisition, so speaking to in-laws struck me as guaranteed conversation practice until I realized I would have to speak with in-laws.  

Through my teens, people told me to just wait, because, much like learning to love coffee, marriage was inevitable. I don’t think so, I said. 

In my 20s, people told me not to worry – I’d find him eventually. I don’t think so, I said. 

In my 30s, people asked if my standards were too high. Wow, you’re still talking about this, I said. 

Approaching my 40th birthday, they were quiet (thank god). It must be so painful for her, they whispered. Friends of my parents, who knew of my experience with sexual violence, blamed it on that. Of course, they nodded, how could she trust a man after, you know … (The people saying this were happily married.) 

No, said others. This is her identity! She is too independent for a partner! Christine has taken an ideological stance against the emotional labor and inequity inherent in the system of conventional matrimony! (The people saying this were happily divorced.) 

They were both right, and they were both wrong. Rape certainly did not endear me to romance with men, nor did it dissuade me. My thoughts on romantic commitment remained much as they had ever been — nonplussed, unenthused. I was not repulsed by the idea, but I did not understand the hype. Good for others, but not for me. I told myself the opinions of others did not affect my sense of self, but I wonder if that was ever true.

Perhaps their constant commentary wore me down, perhaps I listened more than I thought I did. I began to wonder if I was indeed so very different, if my spinsterhood was an ideological position, something core to my philosophical understanding of my place in the world, instead of simply a fact of my life, like my love of wooden jigsaw puzzles, my aptitude for languages, or my very large feet.  

Not long after my 40th birthday, I fell in love with a man, and he fell in love with me. Not long after my 41st birthday, he proposed via jigsaw puzzle, and I said yes. Being together is lovely and simple. My Hallmark movie has reached its inevitable ending —  the worldly woman returned to her hometown and fell in love with the Christmas tree farmer (well, retired chemist). 

In my quiet moments, as much as I feel I have gained something (someone), I’ve lost something, too. I say I never cared about anyone else’s opinion about my spinster life, but now that it is coming to a close, I miss it. I miss my smug self-satisfaction when NPR runs a story about the unhappiness of married women versus single women or when peer-reviewed studies report that married men live longer than single men, but single women live longer than married women. I can no longer separate myself from the overwhelming data that shows marriage is bad for women. 

I’m not worried about my future husband killing me (Ha! My feminist brain says, that’s what they all said.), but I am worried I am losing something. Maybe something huge, like my identity, or my understanding of the world and my place in it. Maybe something small, like being able to pretend my hangovers are the flu without anyone questioning me. Never knowing what movies are out because I only watch The Golden Girls. I have never had an intimate witness to my adult life. I’m not sure I like the idea of someone really knowing me. 

Perhaps I am worried I will fail at marriage. I have failed at so many things, why would this be any different? 

Perhaps this crisis of confidence has nothing to do with identity, or feminism, or even marriage. We are animals after all, vulnerable and mortal and soft. As I leave behind my well-worn coat of many single years, I must admit that I am stepping into a new space, even as I pretend nothing has changed. It is scary here, for anyone I suspect, but especially for someone like me, but he has promised we won’t have a wedding. He does know me. 

Marriage changes you, they say. I don’t know what that means, and I’m nervous to learn. 

Notes on Surviving the Fire by Christine Murphy is on sale now, wherever books are sold.