I’m on a gastrointestinal tour of a local city. I’m trying to pretend to be a tourist in a town I know like the back of my hand, and I ALMOST get away with it … until I tell the goofy asshole who’s harassing the seating host at the restaurant where I’m chowing down on a salad and ancho-bourbon boneless wings that the Starbucks to the north is WAY closer than the one to the south. Whoops.
I had some unexpected dinner companions the other night. They had a kid who was a few years old. Cute kid. Inquisitive. Sharp as a fucking tack. I made sure to only talk to adults, as it was past 8 p.m. and I just don’t “do” kids.
I was talking to his mom, who may be a couple years younger than me, but I was too polite to ask. I threw out my own age to see if she bit — she didn’t — but I was as clever about it as I could be, given the late hour. I said, with nothing but truthfulness, that dating over age 36 is a bitch because you have the “having children” discussion WAY sooner than you ever thought possible.
Shit, just get me to the next date already — I’m not ready to allocate my eggs. Besides, what if I end up like Charlotte on “Sex and the City” and all the birth control over the years was for nothing, and I couldn’t have any if I tried anyway?
The gal I met was happy to have just one child. And she lamented how she used to be the breadwinner — and how she couldn’t keep up with her career and the kid at the same time, so she had to choose. Clearly, she chose the kid.
And it’s an interesting debate that I’ve had with myself. I’ve been the breadwinner in most of my entanglements. And believe you me, I am THROUGH with working … you don’t have to ask me twice to get off the career track.
Like another good friend said, it’s time to quit being a workaholic, and work on finding and nurturing a functional relationship. We already did the “work thing” — time to work on our personal lives for a change.
But now that our friend’s life is starting to return to normal — i.e., she said it takes till the munchkin is about 3 years old for some semblance of your former life to start to return — she’s been off the career train for three years. That’s a long time. How do you jump back on?
And how do you “make do” in the interim?
It’s funny for me to even be thinking about this stuff, as I’m on holiday from the Ultra Extra Over Extended Houseguest (who keeps texting — she texted as the cat, asking where I am. Gah), and she’s damn good at driving away any urge I have to meet a guy and perpetuate this fucked-up gene pool. I mean, really — when she dies, shouldn’t I just enjoy the silence that she’s deprived me of for so long?
Anyway, I told our friend my theory, that I want to go to Paris. I want plastic surgery. And if I can throw in a kid, yay. Win. I want it all. Or I have to make choices … which likely don’t involve something that shits in a diaper.
And our friend, who is trying so hard to regain some sense of normalcy, says to me, “You can always have Paris. But your window to have a child is, unfortunately, not open for a lifetime. Just be sure that you can look back in 20 years and be OK with that decision.”
I hate voices of reason.
I’m not on the baby train just because of my advanced biological-clock age. It would need to involve the right guy, and the right financial situation for me to scale back on work … or (prayerfully) to be able to take a hiatus entirely.
I don’t know that kids are in my future. Bu I do admit that the idea of working myself into my grave is less and less appealing.
Of course, it’s all contingent upon finding the right guy. And I need to be happy with “just” him … someone I can play with and talk with and have fun with and not want to choke because he’s in my space … before I can even think about “doing it for our country.” (As apparently the Japanese are financially incentivizing their population to ensure that the pagoda’s a-rocking.)
Good lord, I’ve had such a good day on my own. Why am I typing about babies? Does all the alcohol I’ve consumed (Blue Moon drafts with orange slices) send my mind THERE? Or is it seeing all the baby carriages on the Avenue … filled with purse dogs … that makes me want to head off my boarding of the crazy train?
Or maybe is it that I want my chance to do something that isn’t soulless and insipid, like pretty much everything else that I’m known for that serves as the sole thing that defines my contribution to this world?
