All the single ladies

She spent her twenties in fear of not having a man.

Now a woman in her thirties, Noelle McCarthy is single this Valentine’s Day — and she’s never been happier. The key? Be content in your own skin

I spent my twenties in fear of not having a man. Boyfriends are a handy substitute for self-respect sometimes

MY best friend went out with a guy who gave her a digital toaster as a present once. A digital toaster. You could vary the timer depending on whether you wanted one slice or two. I have never received a digital toaster from a lover, but I did get a planter off a fella for Christmas one year. A long trough for putting plants in. Just the planter, no plants. For months I thought it was a coal scuttle. I have never planted anything in my life.

This is not the beginning of an article about how bad men are at choosing presents, for Christmas or for Valentines or for anything else (although in fairness, they are doozies, those two), it’s just an observation of how bad women can be at choosing men. And vice versa obviously. Or of how bad we can be, rather, when our choosing is motivated by fear.

Everybody is afraid of being alone. It’s a natural thing to be afraid of. As human beings, we are physically and mentally hardwired to want to be one of a pair. This is why we end up with people who give us planters and toasters as presents, because intimacy is lovely, and because we have a horror of loneliness. Dodge the latter, find the former, that is the strongest emotional drive we know. That urge to experience a blissful, profoundly comforting closeness with another person is at the root of pretty much every single stupid brave terrible magnificent and crazy thing we do. We are wired for connection. That said, as a 30 something year old woman with quirks and standards, I made my peace a few years ago with the idea that I might not get the guy. Or any guy at all. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t scared when that sunk in. Like Bridget Jones I felt the breath of those imaginary Alsations, gnawing on my shut-in corpse. It makes you feel helpless, wondering who’ll father your babies, who’ll look after you when you’re old. I don’t like that I have no answers to those questions at this point in my life, but at least I get to choose my attitude.

I love being a woman at large in this world. I love that I am capable and self-aware. I am proud that I took the time to figure myself out. That doesn’t mean that sometimes there aren’t things I wish I could share. This isn’t an either/or scenario, just because I sometimes want a boyfriend doesn’t mean I don’t love being on my own. I do. And I am very good at it. It wasn’t always like this; I spent my twenties in fear of not having a man.

Boyfriends are a handy substitute for self-respect sometimes, hence the poor old planter man. And many like him. I’ve been with a lot of lovely guys who didn’t need to give bizarre Christmas gifts to show they didn’t know me at all. I can’t blame any of them for not having any idea what sort of person I was — how could they know me when I didn’t even know myself?

In my defence, and in defence of a lot of men and women out there, knowing yourself is hard work, and nobody teaches you how. Or even talks about it, much. Even though the most important tenet of western philosophy is still Socrates’s command: Know thyself. This is the belief that a man must first know himself in order to know the world. That you have to examine yourself thoroughly in order to be truly fulfilled.

But the Socratic Imperative is not something you encounter in primary schools. Fair enough in some ways; they say it takes more courage to know your own dark places than a soldier needs on the battlefield.

For a five year old, that’s probably a bit much. But in terms of alternative lessons, are fairytales really the best we can do? Beautiful princesses getting into trouble, having to be rescued by handsome men? A cursory reading of Sleeping Beauty, Snow White, Rapunzel et al is enough to see that the assorted heroines of the Brothers Grimm do not exactly distinguish themselves with their self-sufficiency and independence of thought.

And for us girls, the fun doesn’t stop there. We get to graduate to the grown-up fairy tales in the glossy magazines. Posh and Becks and TomKat and Brangelina and all the other acronyms who live happy ever after, including of course, the tale of Wills and Kate Middleton, a 21st century princess whose prince snatched her from a life of upper-middle-class anonymity. That is not meant as a personal attack on the Duchess of Cambridge. Kate, God love her, gets enough stick. Those harpies in the English tabloids have her in the dock for everything, from the way she wears her eyeliner to her taste for semi-opaques.

I’m sick of hearing her criticised, and I think it’s weird and creepy that we fixate on her the way we do. Why do we spend so much time talking about the one 30-year-old woman who married a prince last year, when so many of us didn’t marry anyone at all?

There are millions of women who didn’t spend 2011 preparing to join the House of Winsor, they spent it relaxing into their own skin. Millions of women who figured out what they wanted in life and set about achieving it, goal by goal. Millions of women who did their own taxes, and took themselves to the pictures of a Tuesday night. Who remembered to ring their mothers and who went to Tesco’s and got to the gym three times a week. And well done to all of you.

Unfortunately, these achievements, unlike Kate Middleton’s, do not lend themselves so easily to a three-page Grazia spread. But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t be celebrating the courage it takes to grow up, and learn how to trust your instincts in business and relationships, and listen to that little voice in your head. Similarly, I’m all for the romance of Valentines. Hearts and flowers don’t sicken me at all, but I wouldn’t mind it if we had another day also to acknowledge all the women who are learning all the time how to amuse themselves, and motivate themselves and comfort themselves when they fall down. It’s not just a chick thing either, so this wouldn’t just be a woman’s day. Know thyself, and love thyself. It’s an imperative that belongs to all of us equally. Know thyself and celebrate what you find. Even if you don’t like it to begin with, figure out a way of making peace with you. Only then can you get to know someone else and let them try to make you happy too.

It’s as difficult as it is straightforward, it’s difficult because the only way out is through. You can’t fake it, or take a shortcut, you have to put the hours in. But everyone is capable of coming to love themselves — even Carrie Bradshaw managed to get there before she got Mr Big. That it’s the work of a lifetime is inarguable, to know yourself, you have to commit. But to love oneself is to begin a life-long romance as Oscar Wilde said, and what great love affair ever got started without some good old-fashioned quality time?