“I forgot this!” I squealed as I opened up a ragged red and yellow box and examined the
brightly colored plastic bugs inside. “Add this to the pile,” I directed my mom. “Who
needs Monopoly money when you can give each other Cooties?”
brightly colored plastic bugs inside. “Add this to the pile,” I directed my mom. “Who
needs Monopoly money when you can give each other Cooties?”
My grandmother’s attic is a time capsule spanning a hundred years of family history.
Cracked porcelain dolls and scuffed Cabbage Patch Kids keep watch over turn-of-the-
century photographs and angsty mix tapes. It’s my favorite place to waste a lazy
summer day.
A few months into the pandemic, I set out on a 16-hour road trip from Louisiana to
Indiana. If I couldn’t surround myself with people, I figured at least I could immerse
myself in their stuff.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my name on the side of a narrow cardboard box and
crawled over to get a closer look.
“For Jaclyn for her wedding day, from Aunt Kay,” read the pink Sharpie inscription. My
breath caught in my throat.
“What is this?” I tossed the lightweight box in my mom’s direction.
“I found it in her basement after she died. Do you want to open it?”
Unsure whether the growing pit in my stomach was due to the complicated memories of
my aunt or her predetermined conclusion that I’d get married someday, I texted a photo
of the box to a few select single friends over 40.
“What if there’s a wedding cake in there?” replied one friend.
“These conditions are unacceptable,” said another.
“How are you doing?” asked a third.
The answer was complicated.
I could hear several voices in my head. The superstitious young girl in me worried that if
I opened the gift now, it would jinx me, and I would never get married.
I opened the gift now, it would jinx me, and I would never get married.
Another voice interrupted: Perhaps the unopened wedding gift had already jinxed my
love life.
My adult, feminist self fumed that marriage was still viewed as the pinnacle of female
success and wanted to toss the box on the fire pit.
And still another self longed for the wedding day my departed aunt had predicted.
The psychologist Carl Jung described pagan female archetypes as universal symbols
deep within our collective consciousness. His work named archetypes such as maiden,
lover, mother, and crone. The box reminded me that I identified with none. I felt too
young to be a crone, too old to be a maiden, motherhood was never a dream, and lover
was hit or miss at best.
Unmarried at 42, without even knowing the box’s contents, my aunt’s message brought
my old insecurities to the surface. I felt I belonged nowhere.
I suppose you could say my early years set my adult self up nicely for a mostly single
life. Growing up in the country with few neighbors and a sister who didn’t seem to like
me, I spent my childhood playing make-believe. I twirled with fairies, made friends with
cats, and created elaborate feasts from the cottonwood seeds.
In elementary school, when other girls carried baby dolls to recess and spent free
periods playing “house,” I ran to the swings, saving myself from the “mom” role thrust
upon tall girls like me. Pumping my legs, I did my best to touch the sky, trying not to
care that I didn’t fit in while secretly wishing I could give them all cooties.
Growing up in a Footloose-type town dominated by right-wing purity culture, individuality
was not fostered. Instead, well-meaning adults let me know in both subtle and not-so-
subtle ways I was too tall, too big, too loud, and too different. Most of all, I was not
feminine enough and would need a man to save me. By middle school, I had started to
believe these messages.
In my teens and twenties, I swung between wild rebellion and desperate attempts to find
a man. It wasn’t until I moved to New Orleans in my mid-twenties that I witnessed
unmarried women thriving. These women fascinated me with their wild salt-and-pepper
locks, fantastic sense of style, and exciting careers. Their self-worth was palpable. And
yet, I was too insecure to befriend them. Instead, I observed from what I deemed to be a
safe distance while continuing my old unfulfilling pattern of looking for my own self-worth
through romance.
safe distance while continuing my old unfulfilling pattern of looking for my own self-worth
through romance.
With each romance, I lost more of that little girl who didn’t care what her older sister or
the grade school girls thought, the one who found joy in the expanse of wide open
space and her own imagination.
By the time I reached my early thirties, I’d hit my limit. I was exhausted from trying to
bend myself into whatever box I thought a guy—or society, for that matter—wanted me
to fit in.
to fit in.
I had one of those breakdowns that turn out to be breakthroughs once you’ve moved
through them. After yet another boyfriend, who I’d deemed my ticket out of loneliness,
broke up with me over happy hour, I sought help, real help, for the first time in my life. I
took a hiatus from dating and spent a few hard years self-reflecting with the help of
good therapy. I moved to Los Angeles, hoping a new business venture was the fresh
start I needed.
Changing your self-narrative is hard work, but eventually, I discovered I wasn’t broken,
nor did I need to be fixed. I’d left everything that I relied upon for my identity back in
New Orleans, friends, social status, and job. I never expected a move to a vanity-
obsessed town would free me from caring what anyone else thought of me, but walking
amongst the designer labels of Rodeo Drive, I discovered I had nothing but myself to
love. I stopped looking for a man to save me and learned to embrace the woman I had
run from my entire life. I don’t know when I technically became a spinster, but at last I
embraced the label. I had finally found my archetype.
About a year later, I moved back south to the same home I bought a decade before.
The familiar painted walls suddenly felt like pulling out an old sweater from the back of
the closet. It still fit, but the style no longer felt like me. I started a remodel project to
make my home reflect all the loud, unconventional, and creative parts of myself I had
learned to love, encasing it all with bright blue siding with chartreuse and pink trim.
I was finished with waiting for marriage in order to do the things I wanted in my life––
whether that was buying myself a chic gold band, finally planning that trip to see the
ancient ruins, or becoming the proud owner of a used Boston Whaler. With the wind in
my hair and a smile on my face, I decided the old boat’s scuff marks and scratches
perfectly matched the newly formed wrinkles around my eyes.
And yet, finding that box in my grandmother’s attic showed me that those old narratives
and stale archetypes hadn’t left entirely. Part of me was still waiting for a man.
and stale archetypes hadn’t left entirely. Part of me was still waiting for a man.
After I returned from my road trip, the unopened gift sat on my kitchen counter for days.
The old fears that I’d somehow failed as a woman were louder than they’d been in
years. Was I wrong to wish for someone who appreciated my confident, clever, and
feminine personality as much as I did?
Tired of thinking about it all, I peeled back the tattered cardboard and looked inside.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said out loud to my little dog. Tucked beneath a layer of
bubble wrap was a box with the words “The Bride’s Tree” inscribed in cursive. Twelve
small glass Christmas ornaments stared up at me behind flimsy clear plastic.
The set was meant to symbolize what a couple needs for a perfect union. Studying the
fine print beneath each ornament, I learned that a rose, a heart, and a teapot brought
beauty, true love, and hospitality. I picked up the pine cone, a symbol of fertility, and
studied its shiny white and gold scales before returning it to its protective paper nest.
I was surprised by my own disappointment. I’d expected something heirloom worthy. I
texted a photo to the same group of friends I’d reached out to before.
“Why does one of them look like a scary death mask?”
“What a letdown!”
“How are you doing?”
A mix of anger, grief, and relief overpowered me. There it was again, the message that
there’s only one way to be a woman. While some part of me still longed to get married,
even though I knew that the romantic love I desired no longer looked like the kind the
ornaments represented.
Will it jinx me if I throw them against the wall? I wondered.
Instead, I climbed the tottering ladder to my own attic, pushing aside an intruding image
of falling and ending up one of those single-lady deaths where no one finds the body for
weeks. I placed the box next to my other Christmas decorations.
A few months later, I sat on the edge of a padded exam table, my paper robe scratching
against the table cover. When my OB-GYN arrived, I blurted out, “I want to get my tubes
tied.”
tied.”
Every friend I’d asked about the procedure warned me I’d get sexist pushback from the
doctor. They regaled me with stories of needing their husband’s consent, punitively long
waiting periods, and bureaucratic red tape. As a self-proclaimed childless spinster living
in the Deep South, I had spent a week preparing my arguments and pleading my case
in my head.
“We can do the pre-op today,” my doctor said nonchalantly as she unfolded the stirrups
in preparation for my annual exam. “My nurse can schedule the procedure on your way
out.”
I lay back on the table, shocked. “That’s it? No waiting period? You don’t want to hear
my list of reasons?”
“Well, sure, if you want to give them to me. But it’s your decision, not mine,” she
chirped.
Tears leaked out the sides of my eyes as I stared at the glaring lights overhead. It
wasn’t the first time I had cried in an exam room, but in the past it was because some
doctor had filled me with shame. These tears caught me off guard. I didn’t realize how
much my younger self needed an authority figure to validate my womanhood.
The following winter, I dragged an eight-foot balsam fir through my front door. Bent over
in the attic, I inventoried the plastic tubs of lights, tinsel, and shiny ornaments. And there
it was, the tattered box with bold pink writing. But this time, it no longer felt like a loaded
weapon.
I carried the box down the rickety stairs, put a worn Christmas album on the turntable,
and inhaled the scent of fir wafting through my living room.
I may not have created a traditional family, but I have each of those things the
ornaments represent. I am well supported by an abundance of self-assured women
friends with salt-and-pepper locks, brunette curls, and a few blondes who love me just
as I am. I even have a couple of male friends who listen to all my outlandish ideas and
do their best to help turn them into realities. I have designed a beautiful home, built two
successful businesses, and during a global pandemic, I stepped into an exciting new
career, teaching women deep self-love and acceptance.
As my own gray hairs begin to peek out, I have become a woman whose self-worth is
palpable. Even though there are times when loneliness strikes––usually when I’m
cooking for one––I know I am happier as a self-proclaimed spinster than I would ever be
fulfilling anyone else’s dreams for womanhood.
palpable. Even though there are times when loneliness strikes––usually when I’m
cooking for one––I know I am happier as a self-proclaimed spinster than I would ever be
fulfilling anyone else’s dreams for womanhood.
With my tubes safely tied, I pulled a black Sharpie out of the junk drawer and wrote,
“Jaclyn married herself with a gold band she purchased at Barney’s on the day she
realized she no longer needed a husband to save her.” Satisfied with my life choices, I
picked up the pinecone. The box said it was a symbol of fertility, but for me it was just
an ornament. Without fanfare, I hung it on my tree.
***
Looking for your next book to read? Consider this…
Women, the exhilarating novella by Chloe Caldwell, is being reissued just in time to become your steamy summer read. The Los Angeles Review of books calls Caldwell “One of the most endearing and exciting writers of a generation.” Cheryl Strayed says ‘Her prose has a reckless beauty that feels to me like magic.” With a new afterward by the author, this reissue is one not to be missed.
***
Your voice matters, now more than ever.
Loved this. I particularly appreciated the turn the piece took in the doctor’s office where you went even deeper.