Wishin’ and Hopin’

For some ungodly reason the song by this title has been running through my mind for a few days now. I was five years old when it was released, but it had legs … it would be played for years after and become a part of how we girls were taught to look at life.

Show him that you care just for him

Do the things he likes to do

Wear your hair just for him, 'cause

You won't get him

Thinkin' and a-prayin', wishin' and a-hopin'

'Cause wishin' and hopin' and thinkin' and prayin'

Plannin' and dreamin' his kisses will start

That won't get you into his heart

So if you're thinkin' of how great true love is

All you gotta do is hold him, and kiss him and squeeze him and love him

Yeah, just do it

And after you do, you will be his

Seriously. Those are the lyrics. Then of course there was “What’s New Pussycat?” and its glamour tips:

Pussycat, pussycat

I've got flowers and lots of hours to spend with you

So go and powder your cute little pussycat nose

Pussycat, pussycat, I love you, yes, I do

You and your pussycat nose

In addition, the “Pussycat” in question was advised to go and make-up her big, little pussycat eyes.

You cannot make this stuff up. Well, someone did, but it wasn’t me.

By the age of eleven I was listening to songs like this and spending hours staring at the album cover for Herb Alpert’s “Whipped Cream and Other Delights”. This featured a gorgeous brunette woman posing entirely nude except for being smothered in some kind of creamy concoction that covered the goods. Would I—could I—ever be that dreamy? The answer would turn out to be a big no, but most of my dreams came true, so we are good there.

Popular culture held that if a gal was just compliant enough, pretty enough, made-up well enough … creamy enough, she could be ‘his’. She could get herself a ‘him’. Then all would be right with her world.

Of course, personal experience dictated otherwise as many of the families in my neighborhood were torn apart by divorce.

The dads in those households were emboldened by the burgeoning sexual revolution and relaxing attitudes toward divorce. Fathers took off with a new pussycat by the droves. This left moms holding the bag, trying to figure out what to do to support their three or four children. Most of these women had been out of the workforce for a decade or more. Having gotten themselves a ‘him’, they were raising kids and participating in women’s leagues and attending PTA meetings. That was how it was supposed to go, but the ‘hims’ were in the wind, and it soon became clear that “child-support” was not gonna cut it. Those gals suddenly needed a job, and they needed one in a big way.

I was nine when my dad moved out. Things had been going badly between my parents for quite some time, but they had ridden it out until my sister Laura was six. There was a theory that a child was mostly formed by the age of six, and it was therefore safe at that point to shake things up, to get on with the dissolution. To rock that kid’s world. At six. A different time, for sure.

Mom went to work as a nurse, and we officially became latch-key kids. I was mature for my age, and my older sister was in eighth grade at the time, so it was assumed we could take care of the two youngest. I am guessing that the two youngest would beg to differ on a few points there, but it was what it was. Things got tricky. Mom started her quite impressive drinking career in earnest. The house got messier and messier, and so did our lives. I began to pour on some speed, determined to get out of there and be on my own as soon as possible.

I was a senior in high school at the age of fifteen.

I had decided at some point that the whole ‘pussycat’ thing was not a good idea. It was clear that the only person I could truly rely on was me. I am not sure that I had these thoughts as overtly as I am expressing them now, but those years set me on a path of extreme independence. This has served me well in many ways, but my two attempts at marriage failed in large part due to my inability to ever, truly, trust the situation.

My “wishin’ and hopin’” had mostly to do with career success and not so much with couple-dom. This of course had many drawbacks, but I am who I am, quite content with where things are.

My peers and I are at the age where people start to disappear, where even some of the most happy and successful duos have been torn apart by fate. The statistics are quite startling. Over twenty-eight percent of households are single occupancy, with the number of folks living alone increasing year-over-year as we age. By the age of seventy, over forty percent of us will live on our own. People leave the planet and therefore us.

“Something is missing.”

That’s how my friend Gail puts it. Her husband Michael, my friend of five decades, passed away a few years ago from complications of MS. They married young and had two great kids. When Mike got sick, Gail became his primary caregiver for well over ten years. His departure has not been an easy adjustment.

“I always had a boyfriend. Like a long term one … even in junior high. Life is just weird without … I don’t know, I’m just used to having someone to take care of, to cook for, to do for. It’s weird to try to do that for myself,” she will say.

I did not have many boyfriends as a young woman, at least none that lasted long. I have always been a bit of a lone wolf, and I tend to thrive that way, but I have been too alone at times, so I get it. The struggle to find meaning and purpose is real for her and for so many folks who have suddenly found themselves living singly.

The stress of the pandemic and the political strife of the last few years has not helped matters. When he was alive, Michael kept the news on all day long. He was confined to a wheelchair and being on top of events gave him some sense of being in control. Gail cannot bring herself to put it on, because for her it has the entirely opposite effect.

So much of the news is not good, but I am an eternal optimist. There are dark forces gathering, militias being formed, books being banned, rights being challenged. That can be scary, but perhaps it is a sign that we are making real, lasting progress as a people. I believe these efforts are more of a backlash than a forward motion.

No longer content to powder their pussycat noses, women are holding some of the highest offices of the land. There are openly gay folks enjoying stunning success. Many people of color are ascending to soaring heights in academia, the arts, sports, and politics. We have come a long way in my lifetime. Imagine what more we can achieve…

There are always those who are resistant to change, who feel oppressed when others gain freedom. It is important not to give them more power in our thoughts than they deserve. There are too many darned exclamation points in circulation these days and not enough faith.

Whether you live alone or in a big boisterous family, we share this planet, and how we live our lives can be a testament to what the future could bring. If we come together. If we work together. It seems that the bad guys get all the press, but there are more of us good folks on any given day, and we have proven that we have what it takes to pursue the best and highest wishes and hopes of mankind.

We are only human of course, but we’ve got this.

On we go …