Bent Symona's Still Single

1. Auflage 2020
ISBN: 978-1-913090-40-1
Verlag: Jacaranda Books
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, 352 Seiten

Reihe: Twenty in 2020

Symona Brown is a 37-year old Jamaican British woman living in South London looking for her Mr. Right whilst her biological clock loudly ticks on. She announces to her close girlfriends after a boozy Sunday brunch, that she is ready to up her game and start actively dating, to their surprise and delight. After being consciously single for a number of years, Symona remembers what worked and what definitely did not in the dating arena. This time, she knows who she is and what she wants. As Symona reflects through her memories from one Mr. to another, she reveals her sensual, hilarious and downright frustrating encounters. She finds herself asking, 'What does it mean to be a Black woman trying to exist, date and find love?' In her pursuit of love, she learns new lessons and different answers. Will these new revelations get her what she wants?

Lisa Bent is a writer of Jamaican descent from South London. Her work examines the inner self work required to heal and thrive. Her degree in Counselling influences her writing style and she champions the continuous journey of self-exploration. In 2015, after six years, she concluded the award-nominated blog Deeper Than Twitter. She has contributed to Precious Online, The Tribe and the KOL Social Magazine. Symona's Still Single is her first novel. Follow her on Twitter and Instagram @iamlisabent.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Bent, Lisa

Leseproben

Chapter One

Reality

It’s three am. Sunday has arrived and I have no business being awake right now, but I just can’t sleep. I’m lying here fully alert staring at the bedroom wall, which is covered in white stripes of light that have beamed through my blinds from the street lamp outside. Some artists have sold artwork depicting the same thing for serious money. Ridiculous, when you think about it. I can appreciate art, but don’t take the piss. Did you know there was an artist who sold his shit in a can for millions? I kid you not. He literally sold his shit for gold! If that isn’t an alchemist, I don’t know what is.

I need some of that transformative magic right now, because I don’t understand how I’m in this position. If anyone, , is listening and cares to help, my name is Symona Brown, I’m thirty-seven years old and I’m a Public Relations and Communications Executive at a top media company. I love my job and I’m good at it, although I should be a director by now, with that director-level pay. This isn’t even ego talking, it’s fact. Work politics—aka institutionalized racism—is a block to progression and therefore lifestyle, which is a block to my ability to thrive. The ethnicity pay gap report needs to become mandatory ASAP so companies are made accountable to address those differences. This is 2016—yeah, it looks different, but there’s still struggle.

I should also be married with children by now. Informed by society, family and my biological clock. To be fair, I’m also ready. I decided to be consciously single at thirty-two, and five years later, I’m still in the same position. How and why? A former Black male work colleague once gave me his thoughts, which I never asked for. He said, “Symona, the reason you are single is because you are opinionated and too educated.” Shoved in my face like someone trying to force feed me. Please know, I didn’t swallow that. It’s not my truth. It’s his, based on his own self-inadequacy. I just walked away, because that mindset isn’t deserving of a response.

When you have been single for as long as I have, everyone who isn’t tries to ‘help’ by telling you why you are. Everyone is a bloody guru. Apparently, the main reason is that I’m ‘high maintenance’ and ‘too picky.’ I’m not, I just have standards, which is imperative and a basic requirement. If that makes me picky, OK, I’m picky. In fact, I may need to be more specific in my affirmations, because what I’m calling for isn’t coming and I know the type of man I want exists.

‘When are the kids coming?’ is the worst question at this age. There could be numerous reasons, which are no-one’s business, but my case is simple—no man, no baby. I know there is love behind the intrusive question, usually asked by family members and friends my age with children, but it’s too flippant and doesn’t acknowledge the true rollercoaster ride of what I’m going through. Honestly, I’m battling with the fact that I now have less than twelve per cent of my eggs left, if research is to be believed. Even though technology surrounding pregnancy has advanced, pregnancies over the age of thirty-five are deemed risky. If… I become pregnant, I would be referred to as a mother of ‘advanced maternal age,’ which is a lot nicer than the previous term, ‘geriatric mother.’ I don’t feel old, I don’t look old. . And I’m old—I’m fit, healthy and can pass for late twenties, but it’s a different story internally, apparently.

At this ripe-but-nearly-expired old age (informed by the natural decline of my eggs), the real question is: do I still children? If yes, do I have time for the man to come along or do I do it alone? I don’t expect anyone to ask me this nor do I want them too, but this is the question playing on my mind right now and keeping me up at night. When people have what they once wanted, it’s hard for them to remember what it was like when they didn’t have it. Their lack of awareness and empathy silences me.

I love being in my own space, but I’m tired of coming home to an empty flat and cold bed. I’m bored of going out raving, because music isn’t what it used to be and men don’t approach anymore, plus I would rather be at home or doing something with my partner. I’m bored of going on holidays with the girls. I feel bad for saying that because they are great and we have had some good times, but I feel like I’m in a twenties loop and I’m ready for a new story, where they of course still feature, but not so centrally. The majority of us are in the same boat, so I do not doubt they feel the same. I’m bored of my plus-ones being a girlfriend or a male friend whom I have begged to come with me to a wedding. They don’t even happen that often in my circle, and yet I always seem to still be single when the invitation arrives. .

I know this is because of Asta’s call yesterday. I have known Asta since I was twenty-two years old. We met through a mutual friend and hit it off straight away. We did a lot together in our early twenties, from holidays and raving to spa days and dining out. We experienced so much together in our single days—less so as we headed into our late twenties and became more career focused. She’s an investment banker now and she met James, a property developer when she was twenty-nine. She got engaged at thirty-two and Brianna, their first child arrived at thirty-three. She called me to tell me she is three-months pregnant with her second child, and that they have 29th June 2019 booked for their wedding day and she wants me to be one of her bridesmaids. We are the same age and our paths couldn’t be more different. I’m so happy for her, but I feel sad and anxious for myself. I’m not comparing or mixing her life into mine, it’s just that her brilliant news is a wake-up call. I’m far away from my family vision, and time is running out. ‘ is a saying I live by. But what if it already has?

2019 is a milestone year for both of us. As she heads towards chapter 40, she will be hoping the sun will be shining on her wedding day, whilst I will be hoping I have a partner accompanying me, on top of everything else. How dire is that? Did I miss the boat? Could I have done more to ensure I wouldn’t be in this position now? I don’t have the answers, but this cannot be my story. I rebuke it. No situation is permanent, . A lot can change in three years, but I need to do something different. Question is… what?

*

I roll over to the other side of the bed and reach out to stop the irritating buzzing sound coming from the bedside table. . Of course the phone falls because I am too tired to open my eyes. I swipe the floor searching for the device with my eyes still closed until my fingers come into contact with it. Through one squinted eye, I can see it’s Chantel calling. If it were anyone else, I wouldn’t have answered. I press the green button as I draw myself back up and place the duvet over my head. “Chan? Why are you calling so early?” My throat feels like sandpaper.

“Mornin, sis!” Chantel’s loud, chirpy voice causes me to wince. “What do you mean early? It’s ten am already, which is late for you.” With judgment and concern Chan asks, “Why are you still in bed? Are you OK?”

“Ten? Really?” I feel as though I’d only just drifted back to sleep. I pull the duvet from over my head, open my eyes and sit up straight, using pillows to support my back. The sun is out and my heating is on, which is the best combination for December in the UK. “I woke up at silly o’clock and clearly managed to get back to sleep, but I feel exhausted.” .

“Did you have any mad dreams? I always do when I drink too much.”

I laugh, because that comment isn’t surprising coming from my sister. “I think I did. Hold on,” I tell her as I close my eyes.

I tend to have vivid dreams, which I write down. Chantel knows this, which is why she’s asking, however I didn’t detect the usual mocking tone. I read somewhere that whilst you’re asleep, your subconscious acts out what you need to pay attention to in your waking life, which I find fascinating. Remembering dreams is an art. If I think too hard or receive distractions, , it can block the memory. I tend to close my eyes or stare at the ceiling as soon as I wake up and ask myself, what did I dream? Soon after, my memory serves me snapshots in colour that slowly unravel, in no particular order, like photographs being developed in a dark room.

I pay attention to the things I remember and any feelings that rise up and then I look up the meaning in dream dictionaries for explanations, which I reflect on.

“Erm… I dreamt that I missed my plane because I couldn’t decide which door to go through.” . “Anyway. What’s up?”

“I-went-on-a-date last-night….” Chan sings in excitement.

“Again? Wow he’s...