Now, what did I like best about being an old maid? If you cut away the drudgery from this trite term and the women that people usually picture when they say "old maid", then you get a picture of me. Well, basically (and not to blow my own trumpet), I am blessed with such absolute freedom. I know I'm using superfluous words now, but I cannot help it. I am so happy to be a matured woman. I'll emphasize the past tense to signify that I have passed the generally accepted peak of life more than thirty years ago.
Dear reader, I am sixty years old. I am no spring chicken but neither am I a limping duck which has lost its annoying quack. I like to tell myself, personally, that I am a cactus flower. Sharp-witted like its thorns; enduring like its only flower on a barren plant. I do not have a sharp sense of humour but I do have an empathetic sense of connection to those around me. Or at least, most of the time.
I live in the small village of Winfield where everyone knows everyone. It so happens that I live next door to old Mrs. Good and her husband. They have three grown children who had already moved out of the family home. Mrs. Good is ten years older than I am. I guess the age difference is not so wide between us as we get older but I cannot help thinking that she is an old dear. I feel that she looks the part of a nosey aunt with a bullet train for a mouth.
She constantly seeks my company every day, sometimes even twice a day on the pretext of borrowing sugar, salt... you name it. She has mentioned everything in my little pantry. Actually it is not borrowing but literally taking. One day she invited me to a dance at the community centre. I declined immediately. This was not the first time I had turned her down.
"These dances are for the youngsters. They don't expect to see an old maid. It will make the dance lose its sense of cool." I said, as a matter of fact.
"What does it matter? You have not been out for ages. It's about time you got out to meet people." Mrs. Good said, rather sternly.
"My dear, have you gone blind? I go to town almost every day. Now, how often do I see you? Ten times a day. You could practically live with me." I answered.
Mrs. Good shrugged.
Well, I was exaggerating. She dropped by twice a day but it seemed her presence had a strong hold on me.
"You walk to town but you don't mix around. How are you going to meet someone?" She asked.
"I am actually very contented with my life. Is it wrong to be happy?" I asked.
"During my twenties right up to the big five o I was constantly on the lookout for a nice man. I'm passed all that now. I dated you know, but it never worked out. I'm just so contented with my current situation that I don't think I have space for a man now." I continued.
"Hey, I'm your friend and I want the best for you. I say, just go. I'll be there too." She said.
Although I suspected the reason she wanted to be there was to spy on her youngest son, Matthew and his latest fling, I said nothing. She would deny it vehemently. I was an excuse so that she could go. She would tell Mr. Good that poor Angela needed to get out for a bit. Mrs. Good had already sworn off Matthew's private affairs, so she must give the impression that she was not in the least concerned about which female her indecisive, not young anymore son dated.
I have to admit that I smiled when I thought of Matthew. He had come a long way since the first time we met thirty years ago. After Mrs. Good left, my thoughts were transported to a time when I had just graduated and starting upon my first job - teaching right here in the high school of Winfield.
I was young, ambitious and had the world at my feet, so it seemed then. I felt I could do anything. The first year that I arrived in Winfield High, I was a sensation. I had managed to discipline remedial class students using a soft touch - without neither scolding nor instilling. Remedial classes were classes that teachers dread. Students were obnoxious, violent and lazy. Some just did not want to be there. Some slept in class. I had managed to inspire them to study. They stopped playing truant, and students got to trust me.
What did I do exactly? The truth was that I wasn't sure. I had gone about my years teaching in the same school, writing textbooks in between and being a counsellor. I embarked on nature studies on the side and became a tour guide to tourists on the weekends. I had a pretty nice lifestyle, albeit with not many close friends. I did meet many people, but I was always on the quiet side.
My students who are now parents and some of them young grandparents, tell me that I was a dedicated, caring teacher who truly believed in their best during the times when students saw the worst in themselves.
"How did I do that?" I asked.
"You remembered my name and my birthday. You knew when I was happy or sad. You would ask me how things were at home. Sometimes you dropped by to visit me. No other teacher did that." Susan, a student of mine, now a mother of two, replied.
"Oh, I see." I said.
"I hope that I did make academic progress with you as well as being concerned about your personal wellbeing?" I asked her.
She had winked.
"You know me, I never had an interest in studying. All I wanted to do was pass my time in school." She said.
So there I had it. I did not inspire academic excellence in most students, but I did care about their wellbeing.
My mind was jolted to the present. On a hot Friday night we were at the stuffy community centre. It was the heart of our village. Everyone who wanted to meet anyone else went there for its monthly functions. Soon, we were pulled into a group of younger people, thanks to Mrs. Good, who was eyeing a woman whom Matthew had been talking to.
"How long have you been dating Matthew?" My old friend asked a tall, pretty woman with red lipstick.
"Two months, Mrs. Good." She said.
Her name was Gerda, and she looked rather amused at Mrs. Good's antiques. Matthew eyed his mother sternly. He was not the least pleased.
"I care about your welfare, son." Hissed Mrs. Good.
"Isn't this a bit too much?" Matthew said, pulling his mother into a corner.
Mrs. Good had a bad habit of pulling me along whenever she was with me, so I had to listen.
"You keep on dating the wrong women. I just want what's best for you." She said, angrily.
Matthew looked at her, and then at her hands, who were clutching my arm. I looked down uncomfortably. I slowly unclasped her clutch over my arm.
I wanted to go home, or at the very least be away from the maddening, noisy crowd. There were a few older men ranging from fifty to eighty, but I was not interested. Some men had difficulty walking, some very slow in movement. The few that looked good were already taken. To give an objective view, there were in fact eligible men my age, but I just wasn't interested.
I saw Paul, the last date I had. He was still single after we parted ways amicably. It was my decision; somehow I always decided that all men I dated were not quite right. Perhaps something was wrong with me. So to do away with why it did not work, I have stopped dating altogether.
Paul asked me how I was. I said I was fine. We made small talk. He talked about new shops in the mall, and I about my part-time teaching at college. Paul was a man whom I saw in town every day. He was the manager of the local shopping mall. At sixty, he is working full-time and has not relinquished his position. Fit, vibrant and interesting, I thought he was the perfect date. He had no children or excess baggage of an ex-wife. After two years, I called it quits. I felt that our relationship was one of friends and not more. Paul did not feel the same way and the break-up was difficult for him. It has been a year now and we remain friends. On and off, I will drop by his office and he will drop by my place.
I excused myself after a few minutes. I went to a side bar, not knowing if an order of drinks were required should I want to sit there.
"Well, are you getting a drink?" Matthew asked from behind me.
"Ah, you startled me. No, I just wanted some fresh air." I said.
He laughed. It was the first time I had seen him laugh that night.
"Then you should go outside, not to the bar." He said, still laughing.
I was glad that I had provided him with some kind of entertainment at my expense, but I was not the least flattered of his perception of me.
"Of course." I said.
I was rather annoyed with myself. I did want some fresh air with a drink and a seat in tow. Is that too much to ask?
I managed to squeeze myself out a pack of sardines. Of men and women dancing, of people talking and shaded by the neon-disco lights, of Mrs. Good, and her idea of getting me here. But of course, I did acknowledge, it was my decision to come. To keep her quiet for the next few days, I told myself.
Outside, I admired at the wonder of the stars, twinkling. The night was hot and dry. With the absence of clouds and fog, the stars shone like diamonds.
"Found the fresh air you were looking for?" A familiar voice said, right behind me again.
He swaggered when he walked. He appeared feisty.
"You have the habit of popping up behind me." I said, as a matter of fact.
