The hidden economics of a single person's life
If you hate the word "economics," bear with me. I hated Econ 101, too.
I’ve come to like singleness, for the most part. I used to dread it, thinking it would be the worst case scenario. Once, I remembered meeting a 28 year old single woman at church (I was 23) and thinking “that’s the worst thing that could happen to me” and then it did. I hope she (or God) got the last laugh.
In all seriousness though, I’ve grown to like it here. I read a lot. I plan my own trips. I cry less than I did while dating, and I feel a great sense of self. Twenty eight and single isn’t the worst thing that can happen, turns out, and aside from the lack of fancy dates or physical touch, there’s no particular space that feels empty without another person’s presence.
It’s just weeks like these, I notice.
Take the weekends for instance. It’s my work to plan ahead, prepping plans and reaching out so I might have a fuller calendar. I’m dependent on friends and neighbors, dependent on empty planners and a partners go-aheads. But for friends with significant others, their weekends are different. They have an “assumed” plan, a built-in “person,” a partner to plan their weekends with, not the other way around.
It’s not like partnered people don’t feel loneliness. I know they do. But it’s like having a built-in shelf that adds value to your house. You might not notice it every day, but the built-in slowly and silently brings up the cost over time, and the scales tip. There are no real faults or finger pointing to be had. The economics are simply different. It’s the way things are.
It’s also not that the world can’t go on without plans. It can, and often does.
Yet these are the weeks I notice it most. Missed marks. Read texts. Cancelled plans. Whose fault it was, doesn’t matter. Life happens. Plans pull apart. It’s just part of life to brush off, but there’s an added weight on one side. Those Built-Ins. Those life partners. Those wedding dates, weekend plans, and “always givens.” They’re pieces of the pie, too.
And I love that. I wished that (for them). I just wanted that, too.
I know I’m supposed to be happy with this life. Paul says it’s better than being married, and maybe some days I believe it. It’s just that the roommates you see in passing and friends you meet once a week and coworkers who can only ask surface level questions just don’t quite compare. The people are great. The friendships, treasured. But the weight isn’t balanced. The scales are tipped. Marriage and friendship are both economic propositions, but friendship, I fear, just doesn’t stack up the same way.
The way I see it, in marriage, you cut costs. You pool pennies. You share secrets. You split cost, right down the middle if you like, all the way to shared music and comfy button ups and charging cords you can use together.
Friendships in contrast, feel more like a sell. There’s more cost associated. There’s sacrifice involved. Not in a crass way, or one I’d want to give up. Just a true one. Or at least, one that feels true to me.
We all sacrifice to make friends – single or partnered, young or old. We give up ourselves not just in vulnerability, but also in time, resources, budgets, and social batteries. We bake goods and bring meals, we meet each other in “third places,” as not disrupt the lives of two individuals coming together as one. (At least for a few hours, that is.)
We want to make friends, so we do. We huddle together and bake our goods. We gather around tables and meet at third places. We carve out time and share in our lives, because who would call the cost of friendship frilly? We believe, deep down, they are important. For them, we shell out pennies to make and maintain.
But those in partnered relationships have the Built-Ins. After awhile they don’t long for carved time or spent money the way they used to. Friendships are costly, of course, and there are projects at home to attend to galore. Partnered people, at some point must choose to spend on the cost of their friendships. Some days, they do. Some days, they don’t. But the price to build, or maintain, or simply to show up is a costly one, especially with higher gas prices and hovering house projects. What’s gained for single people can feel like a loss, at times, for partnered ones. The scales are tipped. The economics, different. Costs stack up and intimacy decreases. Maybe it’s just too painful to point out.
I feel the weight of the imbalance in other ways, too. I feel it my pockets when I buy another wedding present, I mean baby present, I mean engagement present for the ones I love. I feel it when I’m at married friend’s house for dinner, and they have much nicer appliances than I do, because of course they should if they had a nice registry with nice people to buy it for them. I would too, if given the choice.
I also feel it in the church when I hide my tears at baby christenings or when I sit alone on Sunday. I wish to want be content, but then sometimes I don’t, and then somehow it’s not just about my status but my spiritual immaturity.
I feel it when I’m taught it’s okay to feel, but there’s a hidden expiration date somewhere. I feel it when the people I care to tell aren’t tender to my tears anymore.
I feel it when I’m supposed to hold singleness as a badge of honor, because Paul blessed it, or because Jesus lived it, or something along those holy lines. I feel it when the pastor promises “This life, it’s great!” and you want to believe him, but he still has a wife at home to figure out family dinner, and she still has husband to call when her tires get low.
Singleness, I guess I’m getting at, is just not a frugal proposition. It’s okay, most days. I don’t need built-in shelves, or fancy Kitchen Aid appliances. I fill my own kitchen. I curate my own clothes. I try to keep things in balance by thrifting my finds, and fielding my frugalness, and saying thanks to my parents as they pass down their possessions. I build budgets to gift others, and never break the bank fully in those friendships. I hear whispers, within these spaces, that this life isn’t better or worse, just different. And what do I know?
I’m fine with “different” most days. I like my singleness, and I’m proud of making the most of a life I didn’t ask for or anticipate. I’m sure there’s also weight to partnerships and parenting that tip the scales in ways I know nothing about. Perhaps all family units are economic endeavors, and their masses really are just “different.” I don’t know. I can only give my two cents.
But in all the weight of all that, these are the weeks I feel it.
These are the weeks I notice most.