I’m 65 years old, and I can’t stand having people over at my home.
Some might judge me, but I couldn’t care less about what others think. It’s not that I dislike people or my friends—far from it. I simply can’t stand anyone crossing the threshold of my house. We can meet anywhere else—in the park, on the street, at someone else’s place—but not at mine. I’m done, and that’s that.
I turned 65 recently, and everything has changed since. A couple of years ago, I was still ready to throw open the doors of my home in the quaint village outside Yorkshire for anyone. But now, the mere thought of guests sends shivers down my spine and fills me with quiet annoyance. After the last gathering, it took me two days to clean up my flat, as if a hurricane had swept through. Beforehand, I’d spent an entire day at the stove, preparing mountains of food, and then another two days clearing out the mess and chaos. Why should I bother? I no longer want to spend my life on such things.
Thinking back to how things were makes me feel a pang of sadness and exhaustion. A week before guests were due, I would start a thorough clean: washing windows, scrubbing floors, and dusting every corner. Then, I’d rack my brains about what to serve to please everyone. And those heavy shopping bags! I lugged them up to the third floor, panting and cursing everything. Then the guests would arrive—and it all would begin. Catering to everyone, making sure plates weren’t empty, that there was enough for all, and that everything sparkled. Fetch this, clear that—you become the cook, the waiter, the dishwasher, and the cleaner all at once. Your feet ache, your back protests, and you can’t even sit down to chat peacefully because someone always needs something.
And for what? To then collapse, looking at the wreck that used to be your kitchen? No, I’ve had enough. Why put myself through this when there are people who can do it better and faster for a fee? Now, every celebration, meeting, and get-together happens only at cafes or restaurants. It’s cheaper, simpler, and saves your sanity. After dinner, there’s no washing up, clearing, or disposing of anything—you just go home, crawl into your bed, and sleep with a clear conscience.
I’m all for living actively now, not being cooped up within four walls. We already spend too much time at home, and meeting friends outside is something of a rarity, almost a luxury. Everyone has work, obligations, tasks—who can spare an hour just to sit? I realized I spent my life working myself into the ground—for family, for children, for others. Now I want to live for myself, for my peace of mind.
I’ve developed a habit: during my lunch break, I call my friend Susan and drag her along to a nearby cafe, where they serve desserts to die for. Why hadn’t I done this before? I surprise myself—how many years did I waste bogged down in house chores!
I think every woman will understand me. Just mentioning having guests over induces a headache from thinking about what to cook, how to clean, and how to impress. It’s not joy; it’s punishment. Of course, if a friend stops by for a quick visit, I won’t turn her away—I’ll make some tea, and we’ll have a chat. But it’s far better to arrange to meet in a cozy coffee shop in advance. It’s become my salvation, my little slice of happiness.
I tell all women this: don’t fear that eating out will cost a fortune. Hosting at home will cost more—not just in pounds but also in nerves and health. I did the math: when you add up the groceries, the cleaning, and the time that disappears into the void, it costs more than the cafe bill. Most importantly—you save yourself. At 65, I’ve finally understood that life isn’t only about duty to others, but also the right to rest, ease, and freedom from other people’s expectations. I won’t open my door anymore to those who want to turn my home into a battleground for order and cleanliness. I’ve had enough.
