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Last Friday, I was supposed to be in two places at the same time. Months ago, I’d promised a friend that I would attend her event, the second annual Storytellers for Good Fundraiser.  Weeks after that, I promised a guy I’d met through the After Work Tennis Club that I would attend his house party.  I didn’t realize the conflict until a few days before.

(I may be the only one in the state who feels this way, but I think “flaking,” or “bailing” at the last minute is extremely rude, particularly when the event in question is one that obviously involves a fair amount of work, or means a lot to the person hosting.)

Located on opposite sides of the city in non-parking friendly neighborhoods, I would have to twist myself in knots to make it to both.  I was already exhausted and reeling from a stressful week at work, but I was determined to show up.

At the fundraiser, I met a woman.  She was blond, petite, friendly.  We hit it off easily and she told me that she had just adopted a dog named Chloe.  Despite the fact that Chloe was displaying severe symptoms of abuse and seemed to be making her life hell, it became instantly clear that she really loved this dog.

Like any devoted parent, she pulled out pictures to show me.  Chloe was indeed adorable.  I love animals, but I asked her if she minded the huge sacrifices.  She said:

“You know taking care of Chloe has really changed my life. I can’t really go out anymore, and since I can’t leave her alone and can’t always afford doggie day care, she has to be either at my apartment in San Francisco or my parents house in Menlo Park. I spend a lot of time driving between the two places, and I’ve also had to hire a trainer for her.“

Thinking about the other party, I thought about making a run for it.  I nodded my head, listening, but I also stood up and started putting my coat on.

“Earlier this year, I was about to turn 35…”

I noticed then that something strange was happening with her eyes.  I sat back down.

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Eight years ago, I couldn’t get home for the holidays so a close friend invited me to spend Thanksgiving with her family, including herself, her mom and her brother.  We both happened to be recovering from devastating losses at the time.  She lost her dad and a boyfriend.  I was mourning the end of a long-term relationship with a man I was sure I was going to marry.  I was dreading the thought of the holidays that year.  Even though it’s supposed to be a joyful time filled with family, friends and good cheer, there’s something about the holiday season that also makes me want me to pull a blanket over my head and not come out until it’s all over.  That particular Thanksgiving, I remember sitting at the table, surrounded by her beautiful family, smiling and laughing, but feeling hollow inside.  Her mother seemed to see right through my act.  She looked at the pair of us and said: “LONELINESS ISN’T CANCER.”

Pipeline

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It may seem fatalistic to launch a blog on the single life in San Francisco with a post about death, but it is a truth universally acknowledged that being single, much like living with an unknown expiration date, has often been a state associated with fear. And not only for women living in Jane Austen’s time either. The fear of death is called “thanatophobia” and it is a kind of fear that literally affects your everyday life. Apparently, there’s a name associated with the fear of never marrying too—it’s called “anuptaphobia”—and it also can encompass the fear of marrying the wrong person in life. But unlike being single, death is an inevitable bookend to life, and that fact was brought home to me (again) recently.

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