29 Problems, But a Ring Ain’t One
I wax poetic about one topic far more than any other as of late (or should I say, as of my late 20s): “Settling down.” I don’t mean to sound like a washed-up Carrie Bradshaw, albeit with a TikTok chronicle of another girl ghosted escaping my lips instead of cigarette smoke, but it feels inevitable when similar connotations to those that plagued our SATC forefathers are the ones I’m listening to Alex Cooper debunk and debate on Call Her Daddy.
I run my mouth and mind in circles over this one frustrating, and dare I say “pivotal” for a woman of my age (ick), right of passage while simultaneously delighting in and cringing at friends’ desires to “live through my lifestyle” over dinner. This resorts to me sharing encounters as conquests over courtships to protect myself from the inevitable “how is so-and-so” follow-up and having to relay that while I’m still listening to that song he showed me on repeat, he relegated himself to the “one-hit wonder” playlist, much to my dismay.
My inner romantic is still hoping for all the time in the world to explore myself and what I want in a relationship that coexists with my traveling, working, contemplating individual self. My inner cynic, contrarily, tells me there’s no way I can have it all, even if I commit to living longer and looking younger.
As with most rants, it was a specific encounter that set this one in motion. In catching up with a friend of my mom’s after nearly a decade, I quickly became aware of her (well-intended) bias when she continued to talk to me about my single lifestyle with the assumption it was the prelude to my actual life. Comments included “It’s great you’re so happy,” (agreed!) “It’s so awesome how you’re taking all this time to yourself before you settle down and have kids,” (kind but presumptuous!) and “Wow, so you really don’t think you’d leave New York City?” (I’ll allow her this one—some people just value a savings account and a pet dog over a backyard of rats).
To represent the defendant: She was being nice, was truly curious about my wellbeing, and has no idea of my internal struggle, let alone who I am as an adult. All valid. But when half my Instagram algorithm consists of beautifully crafted Canva templates preaching how timeline is subjective and a social construct, it’s hard to resist the urge to type up these encounters and throw them on the feed, too. Why, despite a life I’m proud of living while figuring everything out, in a society that never shies away from reminding me of the necessity of “working on myself,” am I still answering to the idea that my passions and preferences at 29 may only be valuable if in an effort to prep me for the suburbs and serial monogamy?
I pause writing to read this to my happily engaged co-creator of Fit to Get Well. We debate WTF the point of what I’m writing is in the quest for a conclusion. “You could tie it back to Carrie,” she helpfully suggests, citing how in her 50s the character goes on to re-represent the NYC single woman in And Just Like That... I go into a five-minute sidebar about how And Just Like That… to me is yet another example of how we position single women for spectacle. MAX needed views, Mr. Big got the axe, and we’re back in the world of cocktails and cock tales, just with more attempts at representing intersectional feminism.
I calm myself down with the reminder that what I’m currently agonizing over is a simple champagne problem, and one more deserving of a bottle of André than of Dom. Then Emily, forever my ally in citygirl singledom, reminds me that the saddest part of what we as women experience is that the commentary doesn’t often trend better as we age. The older I get, the more questions of “when” I’ll have to field. I pause to tell her that an even bigger fear of mine is when people simply stop asking. Over the past two years I’ve left “Stop, You’ve Got So Much Time” station, boarded for “OMG You’re Still Young!,” and have started trying to resist letting my eyes glaze over when friends regale me with stories of that acquaintance who met that guy when she least expected it and was married by *insert “respectable” mid-30s age here.*
And if I’m currently more in pursuit of a single girl’s silver lining over a platinum ring (though if Jeremy Allen White comes calling, gold band with a 3-carat diamond will suffice), what could that silver lining be? My personal TLDR of this rant is that I refuse to let all the hyped up anxiety around late-20s dating suck the fun out of the act itself. But I’ve come to the conclusion that if I’m still droning on about this—and seeking refuge among the TikTok musings of my fellow worriers—then I’m going to take solace in the fact there’s enough of us to start a revolution, or at least a resolution to start answering; “I don’t know that ‘settling down and having kids’ is in the cards for me,” confidently to anyone who asks and help turn the tide. Or at least, slow the train down and give ourselves a little more time to just be.
**To anyone older than me reading this, please don’t be offended, an anxiety statement coming from the girl who scrolls TikTok comments and holds back tears/laughter when she sees 26 year olds complaining they’ll never meet “The One.” I’m your friend, your biggest fan and I just needed to blow off a lil’ steam. Xxx
