Independent Young Woman Seeking Car, Wedding, Divorce
By Brooke Ross
Pleased with myself for having figured out my life’s purpose at the ripe age of eight years old, I let my father know I had found my calling. Clutching my spiral notebook, filled with illegible ink scribbles, I had the makings of a memoir in my very goddamn arms. I proudly announced to him: one day, I was going to be an author.
With all the warmth of a parent witnessing their child discover a nugget of their own personal truth for the very first time, he exclaimed how proud he was of me for recognizing and honing my skills. However, he worried that a career in literature might be too limiting. I nodded like I understood. I did not.
He broke it down for me:
As an–
Independent.
Young.
Woman.
I would want to maintain my freedoms throughout the entirety of my adulthood. But if it took me a little longer than I anticipated to reach my professional goals, then I might find myself trapped in an arrangement that left me relying on a man for financial support. That’s always what happens when a woman makes too many compromises.
He encouraged me to consider applying my reading and writing skills to a degree in law. This way, when I would eventually grow disgusted, pissed, or both, with whomever I thought I wanted to share the rest of my life with, a decision most likely made in the naive decade of my twenties, I would have the financial and professional safety net to order a swift divorce. Lastly, he and my mother had only budgeted for my bat-mitzvah, jewish sleepaway camp, and a prom dress. If I was going to ever want:
Car
Wedding
Divorce
I would have to start saving now.
At the fertile age of twenty-eight, I am being fucked right, left, and center with the exact events I have dug my heels into the ground to avoid - weddings.
Celebrating the matrimony of two young people, still in their 20s, making one of the biggest financial and legal decisions they will make in their lifetime, does not come easy to me.
It’s not my friends’ fault I don’t enjoy drinking, dancing, flirting, or finding solace in anything as juvenile as “the one.” It’s not their fault I’m a snob and take issue with wedding salmon, have beef with DJs, and detest the person I become if I’m in a setting of more than five: loud, blue, and desperate. My version of small talk is discussing the thumping I’ve been experiencing in my urethra for the past six months. Yes, I’ve gone to the doctor. No, it’s not a UTI.
To my dismay, the US Census Bureau found that the median age for marriage in 2022 was 28.6 years old for women and 30.5 years old for men. My friends are right on time. Even my middle school nemesis is engaged to some guy with a kind smile. I wasn’t always this behind. I was the first one in my high school friend group to lose her virginity. And yet, I will most certainly be the last, if ever, to tie the knot. My mother said she’s not surprised. It was always clear I would need to build up my self-worth before entering into a serious relationship.
My mother was 24.6 years old when she married my father. The median age for marriage among women in 1991 was 24.4 years old. Right on time. She regularly reminds me that my father was the one who pushed for marriage and kids. Growing up, she believed she was meant to be the “cool aunt” and breed labradors. Unfortunately, none of her choices led her to that destination. I grew up with a beagle.
Now divorced, my parents still insist their wedding was the definition of taste - at least for white people with a loose relationship to God. They got married at a hotel and the rabbi arrived on roller skates. They had a small luncheon with their parents, so that they would be free to do coke with their friends at a bar afterwards. While my mother insists she wouldn’t change a thing, she highly recommends not marrying someone just because you like to do the same drugs.
I don’t know if my mother’s general disdain for all things celebratory has anything to do with not being able to get in touch with her mother to plan the wedding, let alone confirm if she would be in attendance or not, but I have to imagine it’s a small contributing factor. Turns out, my grandmother and best friend, Nanny Shirley, was frolicking in Russia with her second husband, a saxophone player.
Shirl’s first marriage was for business, and in a humiliating turn of events, her second marriage was for love. Considering that neither marriage lasted, she pleads with us to do as she says, not as she does.
With a few divorces under their belt, my matriarchs have made it known that if I wanted real intimacy and lasting love, I would be better off investing in my friendships. Best case scenario: we save up for a timeshare and cosplay as “The Golden Girls.” Unfortunately, I forgot to have a little pow-wow with my peeps before bunkering down for the pandemic. While many of my friends were falling in love during unprecedented times, I was sexting with some guy who idolized Sonic the Hedgehog.
Once the world opened up, and I realized my friends would be engaged before I even marked the milestone of living without roommates, I returned to the apps. I’ve now dated more men for two to three months in the last ten years than I can count on the fingers and toes of me, my best friend Sav, and her two hairless cats.
Agatha, an ayurvedic practitioner I visit once a month, acknowledges that while my personal life may sound interesting, it would be in my best interest to stop wearing black underwear. She cautioned that the dark color might be attracting the wrong type of energy. Shirley thinks it's unfair to put all the blame on someone else’s “energy.” It takes two to tango.
After sending dozens of “It’s not you, it’s me” texts, to then receive just as many “good luck”s in response, I met a dude. We fell in love. He said it first. I said it three days later. Like the good honest woman I am, I reminded him that I can only love him as much as a woman in her twenties knows how. To me, the height of true love consists of raising a child with a severe life-threatening disability who requires our constant time and attention. If we could withstand such hardship, then maybe I would be open to admitting the legitimacy of our love. Unfortunately, anything outside those circumstances would risk complete and utter humiliation. No further questions at this time, please.
Even though we’ve been dating for a little less than a year, he was quick to fantasize about our wedding. A dangerous game to play with a girl who legally changed her last name from her father’s. Just because we are comfortable in the silence together, or happiest when we are communicating in our nonsensical, made-up language, does not mean that I am about to throw out the manifesto of my matriarchy. If he wants to fantasize about some big, elaborate party, then I’d be happy to put a little more elbow grease into his birthday this year.
As much as I dislike it when I become cruel, I refuse to play “house.” I refuse to dress-up and pretend that a wedding will save me from the rest of my boring life. Intellectually, I understand this is not being asked of me, and that no one is really paying attention to what I do, and yet, here I am. Obsessively concerned that I will commit to the bit, just to show off that I am worthy of love, only to then live in the regret that I hadn’t kept my own bank account.
Growing up, the greatest romance I could dream of was between me and my apartment. I fantasized about having my own space where I could write books and have affairs with men who might look like Philip Glass. Now, this fantasy sounds just a smidge lonely.
My mother thinks I should dream bigger - let more love in.
My friend Alexa suggested I divorce the notion of love from the constitution of marriage. I might sleep better this way.
My therapist Sara said I can take a break from this topic. She thinks it would be best if I get out of my head, and into my heart. Though I am still figuring out what that looks like.
Turns out, it takes a lot more than two to tango.
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Hailing from the dirty Jers, BROOKE ROSS is a writer/director/person dedicated to telling stories that feature unplanned bodily functions, whether that be a little bit of piss, or a whole lot of shit. Brooke has written and directed several award-winning short films, including FEELING SEXUAL, STAY BACK (shoutout to Mark Duplass for the generous funding,) and BIRD FOOD. All of her short films are wildly autobiographical and violently physical. When Brooke isn’t on set, she can be found googling if “ball sack” is one or two words in the writer’s room of “Big Mouth.”
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