Thank feminism for the 2.5 million lonely, unhappy, middle-aged women in the UK

I wonder if Germaine Greer et al. ever considered for a moment that their drive for feminism would have ended up with the unintended consequence of mass loneliness; masses of very unhappy and lonely middle-aged women. Their drive to make women equal has made them unequal; most middle-aged men are not lonely nor unhappy whereas masses of middle-aged women are lonely and unhappy. How can feminists ever construe this as equality? One of the essential flaws of feminism is the deluded belief that men and women are equal—which is just another progressive falsehood. The simple fact it this: men and women are not equal and never will be equal. Men have penises and women have breasts and vaginas, don’t they? So how can they ever be equal?

The notion of equality between men and women is absurd; men at forty are in their prime; if they aren’t already married, they are at least settled with good employment and are in demand by younger women. Whereas, women of the same age—regardless of their employment status—are simply not in demand by men of a similar age. Men, by nature, instinctively do not want to partner with older women; whereas the opposite can be said for women. In addition to this, high-flying women with successful careers do not appeal to men; men for the most part don’t want to contend with the problems associated with dominant women—unless, of course, they are wimpy liberals perhaps.

In the following patently honest article Claudia Connell, a middle-age woman, describes her loneliness—of having no partner and no children. More alarming, however, is the fact that there are now 2.5 million people in the UK who are exactly like her—a 50% increase since the mid-nineties.  

Read her story:

The lonely legacy of my Sex And The City lifestyle: Claudia Connell gives a painfully honest account of how she came to be living alone in middle-age

Like everyone, I think and worry about the future and wonder where I’ll be in the final decade or so of my life.

With at least another 20 years of work ahead of me, I don’t know whether I’ll be comfortably off or stony broke, and I hope that the good health I’ve enjoyed so far won’t desert me later on.

One thing I’m pretty sure of, though, is that I’ll be on my own, with no spouse to look out for me or children to visit.

At the age of 46, I accept that my opportunity to have a family has gone and the chances  of meeting a decent man aren’t looking too rosy either.

Not exactly a cheery thought, but at least I can console myself with the knowledge that, in one sense at least, I will be far from alone — because today, in the UK, there are record numbers of us middle-aged singletons. Figures released last week by the Office of National Statistics showed that there are now 7.6 million people living alone in the UK.

And the fastest rising group of ‘aloners’ — 2.5 million — are people like me, who fall between the ages of 45 and 64 and live alone in our own properties with no spouse, partner or children.

The figure represents a mind-blowing 50 per cent increase since the mid-Nineties. Materially well-off but emotionally bereft, we represent the loneliest generation ever known — and as a member of this fast-growing club, I have to say, it’s not a membership I look forward to renewing annually. 

For me, the single girl lifestyle that I embraced and celebrated with so much enthusiasm in the Eighties and Nineties has lost much of its gloss, and is starting to look a little hollow.

I was part of the Sex And The City generation — successful, feisty women who made their own money, answered to no one and lived life to the full.

When it came to men, our attitude to them was the same as it was towards the latest must-have handbag: only the best would do, no compromises should be made, and even then it would be quickly tired of and cast aside.

What none of us spent too long thinking about in our 20s and 30s was how our lifestyles would impact on us once we reached middle-age, when we didn’t want to go out and get sozzled on cocktails and had replaced our stilettos and skinny jeans with flat shoes and elasticated waists.

When I look around at all my single friends — and there are a lot of them — not one of them is truly happy being on her own. Suddenly, all those women we pitied for giving up their freedom for marriage and children are the ones feeling sorry for us. 

Freedom is great when you can exploit it; but when you have so much that you don’t know what to do with it, then it all becomes a little pointless.

I grew up in Sussex then moved to London to pursue my job as a journalist, where I threw myself into a heady social life. By the age of 29, I was earning enough to buy my first home — a three bedroom property that I lived in alone, and still do.

‘Why three bedrooms when it’s just you?’ I was often asked.

‘Because I can!’ I’d tell them, cockily.

I loved having so much space to myself, and the fact I could decorate just how I wanted. I can’t imagine many men would agree to the turquoise wallpaper with parrots that I have in my hall, or the huge chandeliers in my bedroom.

Back then, I’d shudder at the thought of a living room clogged up with toys. I loved being out until the early hours, and then coming home to a clean, peaceful home with everything just so.

When I had boyfriends and they stayed over, I was always relieved when they went home. None of them was allowed to leave a toothbrush or clean shirt for convenience: it was my flat for my stuff.

My 20s slipped into my 30s and I watched my friends marrying off. Still, I never envied them — or not for very long anyway. The only inconvenience was the pool of single girls on whom I could rely to keep me amused into the early hours starting to diminish.

When I first bought my home, I used to go out five nights a week. Now, I typically only have one night out a week, and the time alone that used to be an occasional occurrence now accounts for the best part of my week.

Don’t get me wrong, there are still times when I’m glad to be on my own. One of my great pleasures is still to curl up on the sofa with a takeaway and watch one of my favourite TV shows in blissful solace.

I’ve always agreed with the old saying that if you can’t enjoy your own company, you shouldn’t expect anyone else to. But just as you’d get bored with seeing the same old person night after night, you can also get bored with your own company.

On more than one occasion, I’ve found myself thinking that perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad, after all, to have someone to cook for, discuss the plot of Homeland with, or just offload to after a particularly bad day.

Then there are the practicalities of finding someone who can shift a heavy piece of furniture or jump-start a car. If my married sister needs something done, she asks her husband. But when I need help, I have to pay someone £200 or more. Read more