by Meredith Siegel Cohen, Creator, Single and Striking Out
I vividly remember one activity during Color War at overnight camp that stood out from the rest: the much-awaited Tug-of-War. The star of the game was a thick, coarse tan rope, braided and lying on the ground, waiting for its moment. A group of selected strong girls (of which I was never one) stepped forward from each side, gingerly picked up the rope, and held it loosely, eagerly bracing themselves with stern faces (as if everything depended on the outcome) while they waited for the competition to begin. Then, with the high-pitched shriek of a whistle, the tugging furiously began.
It was mayhem. I can still picture it clearly, with the white and blue teams screaming and cheering for their respective sides. The competitors’ faces turned beet red beneath their war paint as they mustered all their strength to heave the rope across the line. The strands grew thinner and more tenuous as they were stretched and pulled to their limits. At a certain point, one team could no longer withstand the weight, and they gave way, still clinging to the beat-up rope but dragging on the ground—kicking up dust behind their heels across the mark. The victors, along with the rope, eventually dropped as well, depleted of energy.
Within minutes, everyone had run off to the next competition.
There lay the rope. No longer fresh and ready, but war-torn. It was kind of sad. This instrument, which had been the core of the game, was now disregarded in its own hour of need.
I am the rope, with an older generation on one end and a younger one on the other, tugging at my time. I love them both dearly. Squarely in my mid-fifties—at 55—I am smack in between both their needs. It is a privilege to be there for them. But it’s also draining.
My mother once told me that my fifties and sixties are the “golden” years—the time when we still have our health and a greater ability to get out, see the world, and do the things we enjoy.
I’m working hard and splitting my time in every direction. To me, “golden” is getting into bed at 9:00 p.m. with two Advil and sleeping uninterrupted through the night. There isn’t much opportunity to see the world unless “the world” means the unknown corners and crevices of my town.
I’m fraying—literally and figuratively. A recent, striking pain in my groin revealed extensive fraying of the labrum. Too extensive for a simple surgery, I have to wait until I’m a candidate for a hip replacement. Then, a few months later, I felt a stabbing pain in my knee while going up and down the stairs, causing me to clutch the banister and moan. Can you imagine being at work and praying no one steps into the stairwell to hear? Back to the doctor, who informed me that I have arthritis in both knees—but, again, not bad enough for a knee replacement. I’m becoming more and more desirable as a love match by the minute, right?
My personal fraying aside, I am the only wo-“man” for the job. There is no one to pick up the slack.
I envision the rope again and its makeup. All those strands, once taut, formed together to make it initially strong. My braids were woven from a beautiful upbringing full of love, a vibrant young adulthood, and now, a midlife full of wonder and a desire for golden moments.
But how?
How do I muster the energy and time to gift myself golden experiences?
I’m fatigued, physically and emotionally, and it lingers, even on the days when I have time to myself.
At this stage of life, whether married or single, the picture is more similar than we often admit. We have aches and pains. We have aging parents and young adult children who need us in different ways. We have careers and deadlines, and hopes and aspirations.
Still.
And perhaps above all else, a burning desire for a solid night’s sleep.
There is an internal cost to being the “strong” one–the one that everyone leans on. In the past, I took pride in being that person. If I’m honest, there was something almost martyr-like about it. But I have put on a strong showing too many times and my body is now paying the price–a debt I do not wish to increase.
Being single and sandwiched in midlife has its own unique reality. No one sees the tears except the dog. No one is there to rub my shoulders, to tell me “Go lie down, I’ve got this,” or to whisk me away for a short but much-needed weekend. There is no one who understands the ongoing tug of war in my head between guilt and boundaries. It is up to the single to figure out how to give generously and kindly to our loved ones—and to ourselves—during this caregiving season.
When we are sandwiched, we tend to forget that there aren’t two people tugging at our time, but three. And the needs of that third person are critically important. When she goes limp from exhaustion, from losing sight of the joy of living for herself, she can hardly be there for anyone else.
Perhaps the worn rope lying quietly on the ground wasn’t so sad after all. Maybe, for the first time all day, she finally let out a sigh of relief and caught her breath.
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