Why the *%#! do you care?!

My family is the very definition of dysfunction - this I will not deny. However, in their favor, they have never been meddlers. When I hear friends speak of their overbearing and interfering parents, I thank my lucky stars that I was blessed with a mother who could care less about my personal life. This is not to say she's not interested in the things I do, but we have a strict, albeit unspoken, "don't ask, don't tell" policy when it comes to aspects of my life that are the most personal to me, e.g. friends, love, sex, relationships, money, health issues, etc.

Lately, I have been subjected to some discomfort from - of all people - strangers and those who do not have direct relevance in my life. Because I've been blessed with non-meddling family, I am never sure how to deflect rude questions. I try to answer politely, but it really boils my blood when I'm asked things that are nobody's business.

Now, I'm not exactly the most private person when it comes to discussing my personal life with my closest friends. I probably offer way more information than I should, but I do this with people I trust, people I love. Yet recently I've had a coworker come straight out and ask me questions about my financial state. And even more recently, I've endured a barrage of judgment and questions about my perpetual state of singlehood by people who just don't seem to get it.

See, I decided not too long ago that I had no desire to get married. This stems, partly, from the decision I made a number of years ago to not have children. It also stems from some pretty serious soul-searching in which I came to terms with the fact that I'm just not that good at maintaining healthy relationships. To some, this may appear as if I've given up. Have I? Maybe. But it's not something I'm all that upset about. If anything, I'm proud of the fact that I've stopped pining for Prince Charming and have continued to live my life - a healthy, fulfilling, and full one at that. I feel like as long as I continue to do this, the possibility of meeting someone who fits my life remains open. But it's not a priority, and I date, but with all the elan of a paper bag. Because marriage is not the ultimate goal, I really don't give a shit what my date may or may not think of me. The "Rules" do not apply here. I am who I am, and I've actually gotten pretty good recently at tossing the bad eggs off the island. It's amazing what you won't put up with once you've decided your own company is ultimately the best company to keep, and that being selfish is not necessarily a bad trait to have.

But I digress.

So this past week, a friend of mine from another country came to visit and was staying with some of my relatives. I accepted a dinner invitation, and hoped that the subject of my love life would not come up. Alas, it seems to be the main focus of this particular friend - this girl REALLY wants to marry me off. Within five minutes, the question came: "So, Deedee, when are you gonna get married?" With a sigh hinting of exasperation, I said, "Never." You would have thought I had just stabbed her in the thorax and called her mother a whore by the look of horror on her face.

For the next half hour, I had to defend my position. She was like a two-year-old, continually pestering, "But WHY?" She actually had the gall to say, "But I want to come to your wedding!" I said, only half-joking, "I'm too old to wear a white dress and dance in front of a bunch of people." Then my relatives' neighbor piped up and chimed in, "My sister didn't get married and have her first baby until she was 39!" Well, great. Maybe when I'm 39, I'll be in a place where I'll meet someone fantastic and it'll all work out. But I can guarantee there will be no babies, and if there is a wedding, it certainly won't be something to fly across the Atlantic to attend. I explained that even if I were ever to get married, I wouldn't have a large wedding, or even a small wedding for that matter. No white dress, no bridesmaids, no obnoxious DJ, no chicken in bearnaise sauce, no Hokey Pokey. This I thought for sure would be understood, as this friend had married her husband in a small civil ceremony with only one witness. Alas, this was not sufficient for her. Nor was it sufficient for the neighbor. "There's GOT to be a nice man around for you somewhere," I was told. Apparently they didn't notice that we're in Buffalo.

"Tell them you're a lesbian," I kept thinking to myself. "That'll really shut 'em up." But as questionable as my orientation might seem to some (I do hold "honorary lesbian" status, don't you know), I'm ultimately not gay -- and thought it insulting to my friends who are to falsely identify for the sake of worming out of an uncomfortable situation.

So finally, after a half hour of this nonsense, I took my leave. Resisting the urge to stand up and scream, "What is the MATTER with you people?! WHY THE FUCK DO YOU CARE?!?!?," I thanked them for the lovely dessert, came home, and canceled all my personal ads. Then I went to bed - alone - and relished it with a newfound appreciation for my solitude. Ah, yes. Single IS good.

And I don't care what anyone thinks of that.

Oprah has the answer: Polychronism!

A couple years back, I posted about my inability to be on time for anything. It's annoying to some, infuriating to others, and accepted by a select few. I've worked on it, I really have. I even got a little "talking to" by my boss recently, asking me to please keep an eye on the time and to give myself a few extra minutes. I'm never horrendously late for work - usually just a minute or two - but I'm late, nonetheless.

So. This morning while relishing my last true day of vacation (I go back to work tomorrow and start school in another week - for those who don't know, I took this week off to relax and hang out with some pals elsewhere), I found myself on Oprah's website. Now, I'm not normally an Oprah fan - at least not since I lived in Chicago and spent a good portion of my last four (unemployed) months there parked in front of my television - but yesterday I just happened to catch a preview of today's show while eating lunch in a restaurant. She was going to be interviewing Jeanette Walls, whose book The Glass Castle was a much-enjoyed read of mine last year. Since my television doesn't really work (the reception is maddeningly awful, so I don't even try), I logged on to see if I might be able to watch the show online. While poking around on the site, I stumbled upon a link to an article from last month's O Magazine. The headline was "Transition Anxiety," and the lead-in read, "If you're always running late, carelessness might not be to blame—your perception of time could be the culprit." Hmm...this sounded like something I might do well to read. And read I did!

Martha Beck, the author of the article, explains that people with "Polychronic" time perception aren't necessarily procrastinators, but rather have difficulty perceiving the amount of time it will take to complete a task and underestimate the transitions from one thing to the next. In other words, it's not getting to point B that's the problem, it's leaving point A that is. Polychrones, according to Beck:

• Do many things at once and are highly distractable.
• View time commitments as objectives.
• Are committed to people and relationships.
• Change plans often.
• Base promptness on the significance of the relationship.
• Have a strong tendency to build lifelong relationships.

Yep, that pretty much sums me up. So, thank you, Oprah and Martha Beck, for finally putting a name to my problem. Now I can figure out how the hell to fix it...as soon as I finish what I'm doing at the moment.

"You'll find someone good"

Sage wisdom from my friend Scott upon hearing that I'd removed myself from yet another less-than-ideal situation.

I honestly just don't understand it anymore. Then again, maybe I never did.

Out of sequestration!

And so I have, this evening, joined the ranks of those who have finished reading the seventh - and final - installment in the Harry Potter series.

It took me longer than I'd thought it would to read it, only because I was having some difficulty finding significantly adequate chunks of time during which to read. I hated the thought of trying to read it a few pages at a time, and my 10-minute breaks at work were just enough for me to get so engrossed in the story that I would return from the break feeling anxious and resentful about having had to stop reading.

I will admit that, yes, I cried throughout various points in the story, and at the end of it as well. My tears at the end were a mixture of sadness, happiness, bittersweetness, and the hollow feeling that comes from knowing you've reached the terminus of something you wish would never end. And yet I was almost disappointed at the ending.

Now, of course I cannot give said ending away or offer much commentary on it, at the risk of producing a spoiler for those of you who've not yet finished. But now at least I no longer need to shield myself from the blogs and messageboards and myriad commentary on the book.

I wonder if this is how the O.J. Simpson jury felt after the trial.