I find myself at the often confusing and disappointing age of 36. The gentlemen of Blink-182 were correct about no one liking you upon turning 23 – but who was to know 30+ was this…this…unremarkable and traumatic. But don’t be fooled into thinking everything is bleak and grey! For in these short years I have received many high-spirited invitations, unsolicited advice, and an impressive collection of niche hobbies and Wellbutrin. While my distance in the intimate and highly scrutinized tango of the successful debutante – married and in possession of an heir – draws ire.
Allow me a moment to elaborate:
Society, in its infinite lack of imagination and its tiresome adherence to a blueprint drawn up in 1813, has elected to label me a spinster. It’s a word that is meant to sting and suggest a lack, a failure, an abandoned library of romantic possibility. I prefer to consider myself a Special Correspondent. I am one uniquely positioned, outside the fray of matrimony and motherhood, to observe the true chaos of the modern world. That in no way means I subscribe to the relentless disdain for those who debuted and followed the plan – I merely feel compelled to offer additional facets from someone open to it but not hellbent on it.
The Privilege of Observation
For years, I played the part. I endured the ritual berating over yet-to-be besmirched honor and through the paces of entering society with no guidance. From the outside looking in, and frankly vice versa, one would note the grim determination of a soldier fulfilling a mandatory service. I nodded politely while simultaneously mentally compiling a list of the faux pas committed by those who were deemed “successful” in the grand Marriage Mart. As much from curiosity as it is from self preservation, being attuned to my surroundings proved to be the privacy hedge I needed.
The true insight, I’ve discovered, doesn’t come from being the main attraction; it comes from standing precisely where I am: behind the velvet rope of expectation, quietly taking notes.
I am free to watch. I am free to comment. And I am entirely free from the necessity of being liked for what I choose to write about.
My Resolution
Consider this first dispatch my refusal to mourn a delayed debut and be boxed in without context. I will not be paraded. I will not be assessed. And I certainly will not be silent.
This sanctuary, The Reluctant Debutante, is for all of us who find the world’s pressures to wed, bear children, and parade as the “perfect” anything to be met with a raised eyebrow, a sharp wit, and a hearty laugh. Here, we chronicle the trials of navigating those tiresome social expectations and celebrate the exquisite joy of finding fulfillment entirely on our own terms.
I am quite content to remain behind the curtain, observing the proceedings and transcribing every delicious whisper.
Welcome, my curious companions. The social season may demand conformity, but we, thankfully, demand better reading material.
Do share your own initial thoughts on this season’s tiresome expectations below. Your secrets, as always, are safe here.
With love and no loss of hope
