我是年過40、沒有孩子的單身女人，我過得很開心

A few months before my 42nd birthday, I was out to dinner with friends and found myself seated next to a well-known older male writer.

42歲生日的前幾個月，我和一些朋友外出吃飯，發(fā)現(xiàn)鄰座是一位知名且年長的男作家。

I happened to be in the final stages of finishing a proposal for a memoir about being a single woman over 40 without children, and was inwardly marveling at the timing of our encounter. I was a fan of his. Perhaps he might offer some wisdom? Words of encouragement?

當(dāng)時我正在給一本書的創(chuàng)作計劃收尾，那是一本關(guān)于一個年過四十還沒有孩子的單身女人的自傳。我暗地里對我們相遇的時機(jī)感到驚訝。我是他的粉絲。或許他能給我提供一些建議，或是鼓勵的話?

As drinks were delivered I sketched the outline of the story: No one had prepared me for how exhilarating life could be on my own. I was traveling all the time, doing what I wanted, when I wanted, released from the fear of the clock that had dogged me through my 30s. Conversely, no one had warned me of the ways in which it would actually be difficult; my mother had been very ill, for instance, and part of the book was about caring for her.

當(dāng)飲料被端上來的時候，我向他簡述我的故事梗概：沒有人告訴過我，獨居生活可以如此興奮刺激。只要我愿意，就可以在任何時候去旅游，做一切我想做的事，而且不再像30多歲時那樣，對緊緊相逼的時光感到恐懼。但是，也沒有人告誡過我這樣的生活可能真正面臨的困難。比如我媽媽病得很嚴(yán)重，書中有一部分內(nèi)容就是關(guān)于照料她。

No sooner had I finished than the famous writer placed his glass firmly on the white tablecloth, leaned back and declared: “Glynnis MacNicol, you have a terrible life!”

我一講完，這位有名的作家就把眼鏡重重摔在白色桌布上，身體向后一靠，說：“葛林妮絲?梅克尼可(Glynnis MacNicol)，你的生活可真糟糕!”

Not exactly the feedback I was hoping for.

這完全不是我所期待的回應(yīng)。

He continued: “You’re all alone in the world, and have no one to help you.” He turned to my friends, dramatically interrupting their conversation. “Do you know how terrible this woman’s life is? She’s all by herself!”

他接著說道：“你獨自一人在這世上，沒有一個人能幫你。”他轉(zhuǎn)向我的朋友們，戲劇性地打斷他們說話：“你們知道這個女人的生活有多糟糕嗎?她全靠自己一個人!”

My friends managed to snort back their drinks, barely. “But I’m fine,” I protested lightheartedly, hoping to return the discussion to writing. “I’m quite enjoying myself.”

我的朋友們勉強在杯子后面哼了幾聲。“但我過得挺好的，”我隨口抗議道，希望能把話題重新轉(zhuǎn)移到寫作上來。“我真的很享受自己一個人生活。”

He took a disbelieving sip of his drink. “I want to help you,” he said. He then instructed our server to wrap up his untouched steak and insisted I take it home.

他嘬了一小口飲料，對我說的話并不相信。“我想幫你，”他說。然后他喊服務(wù)生將他沒動過的牛排打包，執(zhí)意讓我?guī)Щ厝ァ?/p>

He thought he was being kind, I knew, but that didn’t change the fact that on an otherwise perfect spring evening in Manhattan, I again faced a dilemma I’d been struggling with since turning 40: how to counter other people’s disbelief that I, single and child-free, could possibly be enjoying my own life.

我知道，他一定自認(rèn)為自己非常仁慈，但這還是不能改變一個事實，那就是在曼哈頓一個本該非常美妙的春天晚上，我再次面對一個自我40歲起就與之抗?fàn)幍睦Ь常喝绾畏瘩g那些不相信我雖然單身且沒有孩子，但依然能過得很好的人?

It’s a particularly frustrating Catch-22 for 21st-century ladies of a certain age. If I insisted that I really was having a great time, I was a lady who doth protest too much (men never seem to doth too much in this regard). Politely allow the assumption that I was in a pitiable state, satisfied by the fact that I knew better? That just perpetuated the problem.

這對21世紀(jì)某個特定年齡的女性來說是一種第22條軍規(guī)式的矛盾處境，令人尤為沮喪。如果我堅稱自己過得很好，那我就好像太喜歡辯解了(在這方面，男人似乎從不會顯得太喜歡辯解)。如果人們認(rèn)為我處境可憐，我就要禮貌地接受，只是滿足于我內(nèi)心知道事實并非如此嗎?那樣做只會讓這個問題永遠(yuǎn)得不到解決。

I encounter this type of disbelief frequently — and nearly as often from women, although rarely expressed in such a wonderfully direct way.

我常常面臨人們的這種懷疑——而且來自女性的懷疑也一樣多，盡管她們不會像這位作家那樣直白。

A year earlier I’d mentioned to an acquaintance that I found it amusing that my married friends often expressed envy over my large new apartment — and that I live in it alone — and was gently told, “they were just being nice,” to make me feel better (I assume about the fact that I was alone). There was my best friend’s wedding, a few days after I turned 40, when, happily surrounded by my oldest, closest friends, I was assured I shouldn’t worry because “there’s still time.” (This from a guest to whom I’d just been introduced.)

一年前，我跟一個熟人提到一件趣事，已婚的朋友們常常告訴我，她們羨慕我能一個人住一套嶄新的大公寓。結(jié)果這個熟人溫和地答道：“她們是在說客套話，”意思是，她們想安慰我(我猜是因為我獨身)。就在我40歲生日后不久，我最好的朋友結(jié)婚了。婚禮上，我開心地被親密的老朋友們簇?fù)碇齻儼参空f，我不必?fù)?dān)心，因為“還有時間”。(這句話來自一個我剛剛被介紹認(rèn)識的客人。)

Once, after telling a group at a party that I’d spent a month living in Paris, I was told that it was “nice that you can still enjoy yourself.” As if the fact that I was enjoying myself — by myself! With a baguette! In Paris! — was somehow heroic.

 還有一次，當(dāng)我在一個派對上告訴大家我曾在巴黎生活過一個月時，大家的反應(yīng)是“你還能自得其樂，真是太好了!”似乎我能在巴黎，吃著法棍，自得其樂，這有多了不起似的!

For a long time I did brush these remarks off. Yet another unexpected gift of my 40s: just how little concern I have for others’ opinions about me. But it’s wearing thin. And increasingly I find myself frustrated by the belief that I, a reasonably successful person by most measures, do not know my own mind.

在很長一段時間里，我都對這些話置之不理。因為我在40歲之后得到的另一份意外禮物就是不再在意別人對自己的看法。但是這種感覺正在逐漸消失。盡管我在大多數(shù)方面還算是一個成功的人，但我發(fā)現(xiàn)自己并不了解自己的內(nèi)心，這令我感到愈來愈沮喪。

Not long ago, a friend described my book to a group of women in their 50s and 60s. They started laughing, she told me. She asked what was so funny. “It’s just that your friend will change her mind about kids at about age 48,” they said. “And then there will be a scramble, and a sperm bank, and a tank will arrive in her living room. She’ll change her mind, that’s so clear.”

不久前，一個朋友向一群五六十歲的女性描述我的書。朋友告訴我，她們大笑起來。朋友問她們，究竟是什么這么好笑。“你的朋友一定會在48歲前后改變她對孩子的想法，”她們說。“那時她會突然想要一個孩子，她會去精子庫，然后一個箱子會送到她的客廳里。她會改變主意的，顯而易見!”

So clear! As if I didn’t understand the consequences of my decision making. I suppose this should not surprise. As a culture, we seem to thrive on judging other women, whether it’s their appearance (see every best-dressed list, ever) or what they should be allowed to do with their bodies (cast a glance at the headlines regarding the precarious future of Roe v. Wade). We are deeply uncomfortable with the idea of women on their own, navigating their own lives, let alone liking it.

顯而易見!好像我不懂自己的決定會產(chǎn)生什么后果一樣。我覺得這沒什么好令人驚訝的。作為一種文化，我們熱衷于對其他女人評頭論足，無論是她們的外貌(看看每次的最佳著裝名單，等等);還是她們對自己身體的支配權(quán)(看看和“羅訴韋德案”堪憂的前景有關(guān)的文章標(biāo)題)。我們對于女性能夠獨立生活并主宰自己人生的觀念深感不適，更不必說贊同它了。

But, truthfully, it was the laughter that cuts to the heart of my diminishing patience on this topic. My life is full of deeply meaningful relationships that go unrecognized when people tell me “not to worry.”

但是，坦白說，正是這些嘲笑刺痛了我的內(nèi)心，我對于這一話題的耐心正在不斷消退。我的生活中充滿具有深刻意義的親密關(guān)系，人們在跟我說“別擔(dān)心”的時候卻沒有意識到它們。

I have chosen not to have children, just as I have chosen to be in the lives of those around me. I am Auntie Glynnis to many — and have the framed artwork portraits of my hair and school photo magnets to prove it. I am lucky to live upstairs from my oldest friend and her children — I get to do school pickups and nap time wake-ups. I have two nephews and a niece whose lives I’m invested in. I attend birthdays, sports events and read them stories over FaceTime.

我選擇不生孩子，正如我選擇參與到周圍人們的生活中去一樣。我是很多人的葛林妮絲阿姨——這有畫框里的藝術(shù)畫像(畫的是我的頭發(fā))以及壓著學(xué)校照片的磁鐵為證。我幸運地住在最好的老朋友以及她孩子的樓上——常常去學(xué)校幫她接孩子，幫她叫孩子們從午睡中醒來。我有兩個侄子和一個侄女，他們的生活我會參與。我會和他們一起過生日、參加運動會，并通過視頻給他們講故事。