Please note that this is not a serious piece but rather tongue-in-cheek, meant to be outrageous. I’m not this sexist.
Well. Okay. Not openly.
At what point does a woman become the dreaded spinster? At what point does she cross the age of not only marriage but relationships in general? I don’t really know the answer nor hope on finding out myself, but I think I’ve come pretty close to discovering the answer.
When she gets her first cat.
Camille is a good friend of mine. Beautiful girl. Dazzling smile, piercing eyes. Any man would throw himself at her. And I’m sure they have. Hundreds of them. Just throwing themselves at her based purely on that look of incitement in her eyes. But Camille has decided, reasons owing to the universal idiocy of men, to remain single. Painfully single. Painful for both her and us, her friends. Rather than taking midnight walks arm-in-arm with a significant other, Camille opted for visualizing the more masculine-in-demeanor female friends of hers as the strong arms around which she could wrap herself and stay warm on those late night strolls.
This past summer, Camille decided to strike up a friendship with a kitten who shall be referred to as Chairman Meow. The kitten slowly matured as did relationship between Camille and Chairman Meow. The balance of dependence quickly shifted as Chairman Meow grew to become a robust young man who knew what he wanted in life. Where as once he depended upon her entirely for his sustenance and well-being, Camille had now come to fully rely upon him for maintaining the last few remnants of emotional stability left in her life.
And it’s really creepy.
Somewhere along the way, Camille became a 22 year old version of a 45 year old spinster. She no longer requires a man in the same capacity she did before; human relationships have too much at stake. Men just come into your life, play games, stir real emotions and leave you like a chewed up piece of tin foil. They make promises, they charm you, and they hold on to you for as long as they need to. Cats, on the other hand, don’t. They’re self-interested animals yes, but they’re not going anywhere because they’re wholly dependant on you for basic needs of survival.
Chairman Meow is the man in Camille’s life. He may crawl around on all fours, have a serious problem licking himself where he pees and is barely just over a foot tall, but he is not going to be a man in control of her emotions. He’s not going to forget birthdays or forget to ask how her day was. He’s not going to say the wrong thing about her outfit or complain about her unshaven legs. She’s in complete control.
He is her source for comfort and love. When Camille is feeling down or nearing another visit from Aunt Flow, it is the paws of the Chairman that she runs over her face. It is Chairman Meow that she dreams of dancing with. It is Chairman Meow she thinks talks to her when he’s really just meowing about the mundane nature of his existence. She is constantly filled with stories about him, much in the same way that any woman in a relationship with a real man constantly yaps about the most irrelevant and idiotic of things. Her eyes twinkle and her face glows. She is a woman in love with a man giving her the bare necessities she requires. Emotionally, at least.
And what do we, her friends, do? Well, what can we do? What’s left for us to do? We tried intervening. We tried telling Camille that Chairman Meow’s a cat who is really only into her because she satiates his hunger. And while that’s a good summary of our general male-female heteronormative relationships, he’s still a goddamn cat who shits in a sandbox.
But Camille doesn’t care; she is completely unashamed of her love for Chairman Meow while being completely aware of the bulging critical eyes following her unorthodox relationship.
And for that, I can’t hate on her. I can be sexist, condescending and unintelligible. But I can’t hate on her.