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Sept. 28, 2004 I met a good friend of mine for a bite to eat in Nottinghill Gate about a month ago. As always, I found myself mentally preparing to deal with the familiar bouts of jealousy that such visits with my more "successful" friends inevitably bring on. I wasn't disappointed. My friend showed up immaculately coiffed, having been able to freshen up at her flat moments before (it just happens to be located directly across from the Nottinghill Gate tube station). Whereas I was wearing the latest Top Shop catwalk knock-offs, she was casually dressed in hip-hugging Seven jeans and clutching a Kelly bag. We ordered dinner at which point I realised that my entire grocery budget for the next week was about to be spent on shared aubergine salad, soft shelled crab maki and a tiny portion of deep- fried squid. I consoled myself with the fact that we were dining at a restaurant at which my friend assured me it was virtually "impossible" to get a table as a mere mortal (meaning your last name wasn't Moss, McCartney or Frost). In fact, we'd gotten the table (which was actually on the sidewalk outside the restaurant) with an explicit warning from the hostess that no table would be available to us if it started to rain. As we were in London, rain was as probable as George Bush making an incomprehensible statement and I found myself wondering what we would do with fifty pounds worth of takeaway if the heavens did decide to pour down upon us. While at dinner we talked about our jobs, shared acquaintances and friends, and fashion. My friend told me how tired she was of flying almost every weekend to Paris, Milan and Florence on business. She warned me that- although it all sounded very glamorous- covering the menswear shows in Florence, interviewing the CEO of Veuve Cliquot in Paris and being locked into five star hotels was actually wearing. I have to admit I couldn't shed a tear for her. My day job consists of teaching twenty-odd eleven year-olds in one of the most socio-economically deprived areas of downtown Toronto, while at night I drag myself to my desk, where I slog away at yet unpublished novels. In short, whilst my friend spends her weekend hours in France, Italy, or shopping at Dianne Von Faustenberg's newest boutique, I pass the majority of my time in Toronto, working as an inner-city teacher and celebrating dubious success as a writer. I then asked my friend about her partner, an investment banker who just happened to also be her highschool sweetheart. I hadn't seen him since moving from London back to Toronto five years ago, despite the fact that I still spend every July and August in the UK capital. In fact, I'd begun to wonder if he was still alive. She quickly explained that he'd been at their flat in his boxer shorts, playing Playstation 2 in front of the telly when she'd left to meet me. In short, she hadn't thought he'd been in the mood to join us. The thought of coming home and finding a hairy thirty-something in his boxer shorts playing video games on my living room floor made me stop and think. And suddenly I began to feel infinitely better about my own situation. I made a quick mental note of the friends I envied: the ones that were able to just work part-time, the ones living in London, Barcelona and the South of France, even the ones who were able to buy off the rack. And guess what? Not one of them was doing it independently. The trade-off was that they arrived home at the end of the day and were compelled to share their space and their time with someone else. I, on the other hand, come home to a blissful oasis that is completely my own. The only demands made on my time are by my two cats. I have no one complaining that I don't allocate sufficient time to his friends, family or colleagues. And it's not as if I'm in want of male company; I have two wonderful, talented, beautiful companions who just happen to conveniently live on opposite sides of the Atlantic. I own my flat, live abroad for two months of the year and never feel the need to defend my impulsive clothing and shoe purchases. And I'm in good company. According to research, in Britain alone there are twice as many single women as twenty years ago. One consumer trend predictor has found that single, professional women in the Western world are the most rapidly- growing, powerful consumer group. More of us are independently entering the housing market in big cities like New York, London and Toronto. And unlike poor Bridget Jones or Carrie Bradshaw, we're not spending our free time pining away about the fact that we haven't found Mr. Right. A plethora of successful travel companies specializing in off-beat adventures for the lone, female have sprung up in the last few years and, due to the stressful, often claustrophobic nature of urban living, many of us now use our diminished leisure time fulfill an increasing need for solitude. Think of the growing popularity of yoga retreats, spa weekends and meditation workshops. Times are changing. Single and satisfied is quickly becoming the new chic. The popular reaction to the way in which the Sex and the City series ended sums it up nicely. People were disappointed when Carrie settled for Mr. Big. It seemed contrived because, like the majority of us that are young, professional urbanites in our thirties, we know we have more choices than ever. And this new reality is now being recognized by more and more marketing companies and businesses around the world. ------------ About the author: Jennifer Payne lives and works in Toronto, Canada. She is the author of numerous short stories, poetry, articles and reviews. Currently she is finishing her second novel. Please visit her website at: www.maryjenniferpayne.com Email: mj_payne00@yahoo.com Tell a friend about this site! ------------ |
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