In a show of kindness, the CEO of the company at which I work decided to get everybody in the office ice cream today. There was also sorbet, meaning that I would not be left out. Unfortunately, the only thing with which one could eat the frozen treat was a cone. So I picked out the cake cone (for the 20 calories, of course), some mango sorbet, and went to town. It made me happy that I was remembered, and that it was tasty and I could try to socialize with some of my coworkers.

You see, where I work there aren’t many women. There are six altogether, and only four of us work in any technical capacity. For once, I wasn’t self-conscious about this, and simply was enjoying myself.

Ram watched me. He started laughing loudly.
“What?”
“Stop that!”
“Stop what?”
He laughed some more.
“What? I’m just eating sorbet.”
“Come on, stop it already!”
And then I remembered myself. I can’t simply be me, I’m not a human being at all. I’m a woman. Not just a woman, but a filthy, vile wretch. People stopped making eye contact with me. I am a shameful creature.
“I’m going to my desk.”

I returned to my desk and started snapping the fresh, supple rubber band around my wrist until it broke. I’m a woman, so anybody who wants to own me does. I have no choice in the matter. When a foul-smelling old man at the hospital gropes me, people avoid eye contact with me all the same. I am the one at fault, I am a filthy thing whether I like it or not.

Tonight I was supposed to go to the Distant Worlds 2 concert with Roman and his mom. Roman’s mom has been dying to go to the symphony or the opera for YEARS – after Ro bought the tickets for tonight, she bragged for ages about it. Now Roman says she’s claiming she was drunk when she accepted and didn’t really want to go. Bullshit! She was at work and entirely bubbling with joy at the idea! She was avoiding me. Obviously. I asked Ro to take her, and instead he gave away his tickets and tried to lay a guilt trip on me.

If it had been Roman who were polyamorous and I wanted a divorce, people would look at me and wonder what it was that I had done wrong. Too fat. Nags too much. Too clingy. Something. Because it’s me, I’m a horrible, vile thing. People who once professed love for me and promised me that no matter what happens I’ll always be family won’t even come near me. I’ve committed the greatest sin there is: being a slut. I don’t want to be a woman, I just want to be a human being.

You know why writers almost always tack that happily ever after crap onto their stories, right? It’s so you can feel safe in ending your emotional investment with the characters (I don’t have to worry, they’ll be OK now!). Unfortunately, this safe, sloppy little writing tactic tends to get projected onto real, live people (ourselves included), and we seek out certain milestones in life at which we seek to end our emotional investments in ourselves. However, there is no happily ever after – there never was – and everybody needs to stop this dangerous business of divesting themselves their of interest in their own futures.