It happened again last Friday night, as it has with increasing frequency since my marriage. While out for dinner & drinks with the Anonymous Husband & a few of his acquaintances, I noticed that some of the male & single amongst them largely talked around me. They briefly acknowledged me, then swiftly ignored me as they resumed scanning the room & constantly checking their Blackberries for someone more interesting.* Again.
*Psst, single men - the single ladies don't much care for the Blackberry move either.
Before I give you the wrong impression, I hasten to add - I'm hastening so fast, I'm risking death by my perilous espadrille wedges** here - that this has nothing to do with my seeking out attention from any man but my own personal, perfectly wonderful AH. Sure, we ladies all generally appreciate - um - appreciation; however, that isn't the issue here.
**Banana Republic shoes of awesomeness. Trust me.
No, what I object to is my tidily being filed away in the "Wife of ___" social cubbyhole, a woman to be respected by men to whom I am not married (good!), but also marginalized as someone not worth tossing more than a pleasantry or two prior to resuming The Search (not good!). I absolutely don't deny them The Search itself - been there, married that*** - but merely the skipping of the formalities that indicate I am still someone worthy of small-talk. Plus, straight men of the world, who better to act as your wing-woman than a wildly attractive yet happily married lady?
***Remember how the AH & I met in a bar? But how it was classy in our case because friends introduced us? Yeah.
Do I have just enough perspective to realize that this is a vastly less important problem than, say, the North Korean nuclear issue or the (hopeful) undercover operation to save that "Kate is Eight and Hates Her Husband" lady from her own hellacious hairdo? Yes. Yes, I do. However, it's simply, you know, rude. We do like our manners here at the Pretty, particularly when I'm the one doing the etiquette enforcing.
I hope this doesn't sound bitter; on the contrary, the realist in me is grateful for these sorts of karmic kindnesses along the "Ohmigod, I'm not in my 20s anymore!" path. After all, this is yet another reminder that I am slowly and voluntarily emerging from the bar-hopping, twenty-something scene****. I'm also told by my mommy friends that this "Wife of ___" business will seamlessly morph with the advent of kidlets into "Mom of ___". Perhaps this gradual transition into the next "of____", as ushered in by the gin-swilling singletons of Texas, is actually nature's kind way of preparing me for total social identity annihilation.
****Into what - the trashy reality TV watching scene?
Gentlemen of the Great State, until that next "of____" comes, perhaps we can arrive at a detente of sorts. On our next social adventure, why don't you briefly remember to ask me how my week & pretend to look interested in same before resuming The Search, in exchange for which I will resist dunking your Blackberry into your Shiner beer? Deal?