Download PDF No One Tells You This: A Memoir, by Glynnis MacNicol
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No One Tells You This: A Memoir, by Glynnis MacNicol
Download PDF No One Tells You This: A Memoir, by Glynnis MacNicol
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Über den Autor und weitere Mitwirkende
Glynnis MacNicol is a writer and cofounder of The Li.st. Her work has appeared in print and online for publications including Elle.com (where she was a contributing writer), The New York Times, The Guardian, Forbes, The Cut, Daily News (New York), W, Town & Country, The Daily Beast, mental_floss, and Capital New York. Her series of articles on the Brownsville neighborhood in Brooklyn for Chase’s award-winning “From the Ground Up” package won a 2015 Contently Award. She is the author of the memoir No One Tells You This and the coauthor of There Will Be Blood, a guide to puberty, with HelloFlo founder Naama Bloom. She lives in New York City.
Leseprobe. Abdruck erfolgt mit freundlicher Genehmigung der Rechteinhaber. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.
No One Tells You This 1. The Forecast Eight hours before my fortieth birthday, I sat alone at my desk on the seventeenth floor of an office building in downtown Manhattan, unable to shake the conviction that midnight was hanging over me like a guillotine. I was certain that come the stroke of twelve my life would be cleaved in two, a before and an after: all that was good and interesting about me, that made me a person worthy of attention, considered by the world to be full of potential, would be stripped away, and whatever remained would be thrust, unrecognizable, into the void that awaited. It was ridiculous. Deep down, I knew it was ridiculous. However, knowing this did not keep me from anxiously glancing at the clock out in the hallway as if the hands on it were actual blades. I thought of my mother, of course. Whether or not we actually resemble the image we see, our mothers are our first, and most lasting, reflection of ourselves: a mirror we gaze into from birth until death. I was eight when my mother turned forty, and while I could no longer recall the exact details of that day, I did have a vague memory of it being surrounded by the sort of manic hysteria I associated with the Cathy cartoons that were sometimes clipped and taped to our fridge. My mother loved the comics; she found joy in their simple, two-dimensional humor. For most of her life she would try to hand the comic strip section of the newspaper to me over the breakfast table or read them aloud, so I could enjoy them too. I never did. I was baffled that anyone found them interesting; they were so bloodless. At age eight, the appeal of the Cathy cartoon, about a single woman with heavy thighs, who dimly battled with her weight, her dating life, and her job, all with pathetic aplomb, was especially confusing. My interest in those days was almost exclusively directed at Princess Leia and Laura Ingalls. This sad Cathy creature, so often pictured feverishly trying to shove herself into bathing suits in department store changing rooms, struck me as the exact version of life I would happily expend all my future energy avoiding. Which is largely what I did. My strongest impression of my mother’s birthday, however, was that it was an ending. I sensed an abandon all hope, ye who enter here message woven into the colorful birthday cards that arrived in the mail for her. As if simply by turning forty, my mother had somehow failed at something. And now here I was so many years later, about to turn forty myself, gripped by those identical fears despite all my determination to be otherwise. Eight-year-old me would have been revolted. My desk faced north. Through the wall of windows that made up half of the corner office I was in, I had a panoramic view of the island. Below me Manhattan stretched out like a toy city, all sharp angles, silver rectangles, and the unbroken lines of the avenues running north. Even from this height the city exuded purpose, like an engine exhaust. Right then it was shimmering in the late afternoon, early September sun. The light cast a golden hue on everything. It was the sort of light that caused even the most hell-bent New Yorker to look up with renewed awe. I pulled out my phone, automatically angled my head in a well-practiced tilt, and took a selfie. I contemplated the result with some satisfaction, but I didn’t need the picture evidence. I was aware that to the outside world I could not have appeared less like a woman who should be worried about her age, less like someone who was now spending the last hours before her birthday seized by the belief she was being marched to her demise. In all likelihood, even my friends would have been surprised to hear it. I was not known as a person who tended to cower; I was a person who kept going, who took care of things, who always had the answer, who rarely asked for help. I had been on my own since I was eighteen years old. I had taken myself from waitress to well-paid writer to business owner and now back to writer without stopping to consider whether any of these things were plausible to anyone but me. I knew what I wanted, and what I liked, which was probably why most of my friends had taken me at my word when I said I didn’t want a birthday party; they were accustomed to me knowing my own mind. I wasn’t so sure anymore, however. Currently my mind felt split, as though there were two voices in my head debating the importance of my birthday, and like the pendulum on a grandfather clock I was swinging from one to the other. The rational voice kept pointing out that it was not only shameful, but also a waste of time, to cower before age. Wouldn’t my energies be better spent contemplating how lucky I was? Lucky was too weak a word. Did I really need reminding that by nearly every metric available, there had never been a better time in history to be a woman? (Sometimes this voice merely noted how universally horrific it had been to be a woman up until very recently.) After all, I hadn’t been raised by a mother who responded to fifth grade homework questions, like “How many wives did Henry VIII have?” with a detailed explanation of the War of the Roses, only to arrive at this point in my life without a deeply ingrained sense of the larger picture. Who cares, said the other voice. Sure, fine, technically it might be true I was lucky. But this so-called luck was no more interesting to me than the meals I’d been commanded to finish as a child because “there are starving children in the world”: knowing I was fortunate did not make the plate before me any more palatable. The only truth this increasingly feverish voice recognized was the sort that had been gleaned from stacks of literature, countless movies, and decades of magazine purchases I’d made: it was a truth universally acknowledged that by age forty I was supposed to have a certain kind of life, one that, whatever else it might involve, included a partner and babies. Having acquired neither of these, it was nearly impossible, no matter how smart, educated, or lucky I was, not to conclude that I had officially become the wrong answer to the question of what made a woman’s life worth living. If this story wasn’t going to end with a marriage or a child, what then? Could it even be called a story? I very much wanted to muster a good fuck you to these voices. I reminded myself what the manager of the Greenwich Village tavern where I worked in my twenties as a waitress had once said to me (after listening to me lament my upcoming twenty-fifth birthday, no less): “You’ll never be younger than you are today.” But instead I laid my head on my desk and closed my eyes. Bring on the blade, I thought. I was so tired of my own mind it would be a relief. My phone vibrated beside me and my heart leapt from long habit, like a dog that believes every noise of a package being opened holds the promise of food. But it was just my friend and now business partner, Rachel. Since leaving the office for a meeting a few hours ago, she had texted me some variation of PARTY? every fifteen minutes or so. There’s still time! Party Party Party???? YES PARTY Rachel had been offering to throw me a party all week. Her fortieth birthday party, two years prior, had taken place in a vast loft with a liquor sponsor. I had no doubt that if I’d wanted the same she would have managed to provide it, probably in the next two hours if I really made a fuss. She’d already put together a gift bag for me from twenty friends. No Party, I wrote back. She wasn’t the only one. People had asked and offered. There were a half dozen friends...
Produktinformation
Taschenbuch: 304 Seiten
Verlag: Simon & Schuster; Auflage: Reprint (16. Juli 2019)
Sprache: Englisch
ISBN-10: 1501163140
ISBN-13: 978-1501163142
Größe und/oder Gewicht:
14 x 2,3 x 21,3 cm
Durchschnittliche Kundenbewertung:
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Amazon Bestseller-Rang:
Nr. 94.480 in Fremdsprachige Bücher (Siehe Top 100 in Fremdsprachige Bücher)
A total original, MacNicol has the ability to put impossible-to-describe feelings into words. (I kept taking screenshots and sending them to friends - is there a better review than that?) I devoured this story of adventure, joy, blind item dating, friendship, tragedy, and resilience. This is the story of a truly happy (but not carefree - in fact, caretaking) childless woman in her 40s and it's the memoir we need now. MacNicol is the role model I've been looking for. One of the best books of the year and a perfect complement to all the great mom memoirs out this year! There are many ways to live a good life and here is one of them. LOVED IT!
On paper, Glynnis and I have very different lives, but the story that she tells is universal. That ever present self-doubt (example: "Am I making this decision because I want to do this or because I worry I will feel like I missed out"; "Will this make me happy or am I already happy?") felt so familiar and so immediate that I could not put the book down. I have one year old toddler twins, so when I tell you that I stayed up very late two nights in a row because I had to keep reading, you will understand how moving this book is. Nothing keeps a mother of twin toddlers from going to bed on time... well, nothing except this book!
OMG, I stumbled on this phenomenal book by an accident, searching for something else. I am so glad I felt an urge to buy it! It's one of the best memoirs I've read. And the final paragraph is the most beautifully written ending to a book I've ever read - it still makes me want to cry tears of joy (I finished the book last night). Even though I am happily married I could relate to Glannis so much as a woman approaching 40. We need more books like this - written about and by intelligent, courageous, modern women, that live their lives on their own terms.
As a woman who is 40 and not married and who does not have children, yet is completely content in her life, I could really relate to this book. Most importantly, it is SO well-written: funny, self-deprecating, honest, smart, and so real. I have given this as a gift to many people. You won't want to put it down!
This is more of a memoir of a year in her life. I purchased it because I thought it would be a breathe of fresh air reading about a woman's experience turning 40 and how she navigates society's expectation and/or disappointment with women 40 and over. When she did write about navigating society's expectation, I totally agreed with her. Due to my disappointment, it makes me want to write my own book about being 50+ and what society expects of childless and single women.
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