Dear Title

In my line of work, I get a lot of generic info-seeking emails from people around the globe. Most of them start off with the type of comical greeting that is likely perpetuated due to its not being worth the effort of correcting:

• Hello Dear
• Dear Sir
• Respected Doctor
• Most revered Professor

Salutations like these arise from the disconnect between different cultures, and carry about as much sincerity as your average "how are you." Given the choice, I forego titles altogether, though "Miss" will do in a pinch. But the one rampant appellation that bothers me is "Ms." I even hate the very sound of it, Mizz, like some lazy-tongued utterance that inevitably devours the following syllable like a frankenmoniker.

When I was growing up, "Ms" was reserved for matronly women like widows and divorcées. It was an almost pitiable label that spawned gossipy glances and hushed speculations. Although times have changed, it still seems to me to define a woman in terms of one specific prior relationship, and I would be happy to see the title diminish into the past along with the assumptions and values it represents. These days, it seems to be applied indiscriminately to any woman whose marital status is uncertain.

Sure, courtesy is admirable, and objective titles like "Dr" are another matter entirely. But in today's world where gender no longer defines worth, it seems to me that titles like Mr, Mrs, Miss, and Ms have no place. I would argue that there's much more value in stripping language of this kind of superfluity that has nothing productive to offer, in removing the rigid constructs that create division.

Titles tied to gender and relationships serve only to call attention to non-issues, and bring those non-issues into areas of life—like workplaces—where they have no place. They promote particular treatment of a person, affect interactions, and (intentionally or otherwise) establish hierarchies.

Valentine Interludes

When you're a single person, you come to expect that nothing but bad things and bad feelings will come on Valentine's Day. After all, it's dedicated to elevating romantic love above all else.

Platonic love plays a huge role in my life, but the world always cocks a skeptical eyebrow when it sees two humans together, particularly if (like me) you connect best with the opposite sex. You can't go anywhere—a restaurant, a movie, a museum—with a friend, without people assuming you're a couple and treating you accordingly. It really feels like coupledom has a monopoly on social activities. It's reinforced every day, but never more so than on Valentine's Day.

This is how it is every year for me. And so, nobody was more surprised than I was that a large part of today was perfect. It was all thanks to my very best friend who is generous with the most precious of gifts: time and kindness. He's sympathetic to my need for friendly connection, yet sensitive to society's incorrect assumptions. But social image be damned, we spent the late morning through late afternoon out and about, and my traditional Valentine's melancholy was averted.

Almost. Dinner and evening are still prime couple's time, which is simultaneously disappointing and understandable. If you've planned to spend time with a friend or two, they'll almost certainly have made additional plans for afterward, even if you envisioned that you'd be laughing and drinking into the wee hours. I think of these after-plans as the "main event," and my role as the interlude, which is something like playing second fiddle. It's like ordering a dessert so as to replace the taste of the meal on your palate. It's like you're good—maybe even great—but not sufficient. You're not the note that anybody intends to end on.

And then you're back to Baltic Avenue earlier than anticipated, wondering if that unopened bottle of Kraken will fill you with cheer or melancholy (hint: supermelancholy), while the couples take over the rest of the monopoly board outside the four walls of your apartment.

So you end up making yourself some toast for Valentine's dinner, and watching your favourite Downton Abbey rerun, trying to wring a little bit of self-pampering out of the dying day.

La Familia

For such a small month, February devotes a lot of itself to anti-single propaganda. There's the obvious source (Valentine's Day) that can seem manufactured just to cause melancholy in those of us in non-romantic situations.

Where I live, today is "Family Day," and although it doesn't carry the commercial appeal of Valentine's Day, it has the added import of being a statutory holiday. I think the idea of "family" is flexible enough these days (at least in this town) to include a range of previously excluded types:

As a rabid anti-bigot, it's a delicious privilege to live in a place where these differences of familia are becoming non-issues. But the obvious deficiency is exclusion of non-pet-owning singles. Those of us who would love to have a stable enough home to have a pet, but just don't. Those of us who, perhaps, don't like pets. Those of us who have a household consisting only of ourselves.

But even we have family: the supportive unit that we create for ourselves, carving space into our lives for people with whom we have connections akin to kinship. What bothers me is that the idea of "family" usually doesn't allow for this, and these deep connections don't get the respect that they deserve for being relationships as strong as blood or marriage.

So Happy Family Day to all the singles out there. I hope you spent it the way I did: cherishing some new moments of laughter and love with the closest beings in your world.

A Little Context

“Don't laugh at the spinsters, dear girls, for often very tender, tragic romances are hidden away in the hearts that beat so quietly under the sober gowns, and many silent sacrifices of youth, health, ambition, love itself, make the faded faces beautiful.”

― Louisa May Alcott, Little Women

Let me set the stage, so that you have some insight into the mind behind my ramblings.

The hardest lesson in life is that the deepest, purest feelings are sometimes un-reciprocated. Sometimes the thing that seems most meant to be—the thing that is most meant to be—just... isn't. Or maybe you held it in your hands for a moment, like a stray sunbeam, before it slipped away despite your best efforts to gently hold it close. It's one of life's illogically unfair situations, like a night of insomnia when all you want is sleep, but it doesn't want you.

Worst of all, it's not the sort of lesson that you can learn from, because it didn't arise from a mistake. It is never incorrect to follow your heart. You just can't help your feelings, you can't think your way out of them. You can hide or stifle them, but they're still there. They'll always inform your behaviour, your outlook,  your attitude, your contentment.

The hard lesson is learning that this is the case, and living a fulfilling life nonetheless. Keeping the golden memories of that handful of sunshine, knowing that you are richer for it, and trusting that more sunshine is in the forecast.

It's a hell of a way to run a railroad.

I lived with my soulmate for over 5 years when my sunbeam slipped away. The possibility of this lesson had never hit me before, and I didn't know what to make of it. It's been almost four years since then, and I'm only just starting to understand it. In the earliest days of my darkness, a very good friend gave me this advice: "Sometimes things happen that look so dreadful and isolating when you're living through them, but later in life you realize that much joy came only because they happened." It was meager consolation at the time, but stuck with me.

So, now I consider myself immensely rich. Rich because of those years when I was swept up in following my heart. Richer still because that soulmate (yes, I maintain that we are still soulmates) is now my unconditional best friend, and our friendship would never have grown so deep in that previous time. And richest of all, because even if I can't help still feeling the way I felt ten years ago, life is still beautiful—more beautiful than ever. And that's an ultimate triumph.