I’m 65, and I can’t stand having people over at my house.
Now, some might judge me, but I’m not bothered by what anyone thinks. Don’t get me wrong; I don’t hate people or my friends—certainly not. I just can’t bear it when someone crosses the threshold into my home. We can meet anywhere else—in the park, on the street, at someone else’s place—but not mine. I’m done, period.
I turned 65 recently, and everything’s changed since then. Just a couple of years ago, I was ready to throw open the doors of my small home near Birmingham to anyone who wished to visit. But now, the thought of guests sends chills down my spine and fills me with a dull irritation. After my last get-together, I spent two days cleaning up my place as if a hurricane had swept through. Before that, I spent an entire day in the kitchen, cooking up heaps of food, followed by two more days clearing the mess and chaos. Why should I do this? I don’t want to waste any more of my life on this.
I remember how it used to be, and it fills me with a deep sense of longing and fatigue. A week before guests were due, I’d start a thorough clean: washing windows, scrubbing floors, cleaning every nook and cranny. Then I’d rack my brain over the menu, trying to please everyone. And those heavy bags from the shop! I hauled them to the second floor, puffing and cursing everything under the sun. Once the guests arrived, it all began—serving everyone, making sure plates stayed full, ensuring everything was spotless. Bring this, take that, serve this, clear that—you’re the chef, the waitress, the dishwasher, and the cleaner all in one. Your feet ache and your back complains, and you can’t even sit down for a proper chat because someone always needs something.
And for what? To collapse afterward, looking at a demolished kitchen? I’ve had enough—I’m done with it. Why put myself through it when others can do it better and quicker for a fee? Now, all celebrations, gatherings, and meet-ups happen only in cafés or restaurants. It’s cheaper, simpler, and doesn’t drain my soul. After dinner, there’s nothing to wash or tidy up—you just head home, slip into bed, and sleep with a clear conscience.
I’m all about living actively now, not stagnating within four walls. We spend plenty of time at home as it is, and meeting friends elsewhere is a rare treat, almost a luxury. Everyone has work, tasks, responsibilities—who has the time to simply sit together? I’ve realized I’ve spent my life toiling away for family, children, for others. Now it’s time to focus on myself, my peace.
I’ve developed a new habit: during my lunch break, I call my friend Nina and drag her to a nearby café, where the desserts are finger-licking good. Why didn’t I do this before? I’m amazed at myself—how many years did I lose, trapping myself in the domestic grind!
I think every woman will understand. Just the thought of hosting guests at home triggers a headache over what to cook, how to clean, and how to impress. It’s not a joy; it’s a burden. Of course, if a friend stops by for five minutes, I won’t turn her away—I’ll pour some tea, and we’ll chat. But it’s better to plan ahead and meet in a cozy coffee shop. That’s become my salvation, my little happiness.
To all women, I say: don’t fear that a restaurant will cost a fortune. You’ll spend more at home—not just in pounds, but in nerves and health too. I did the math: on groceries, cleaning, and the time wasted, it turns out to be more expensive than a bill at a café. Most importantly, you’ll keep yourself intact. At 65, I’ve finally realized that life isn’t just about obligations to others; it’s also about the right to rest, to lightness, and to freedom from others’ expectations and demands. I’m not going to open my door anymore to those who turn my home into a battleground for cleanliness and order. I’ve had enough.
