I think they’re on to us.
They use to be so content-- blissfully unaware in their drug-induced stupor, emerging only one week out of four into a zombie-half-wakefulness, begging for chocolate, Google-ing puppies in baskets, and occasionally making me cry for no good reason.
But I don’t think I can trick them for much longer because lately. . . lately, they’ve been waking up, announcing their presence, coursing with impatience, becoming increasingly insistent in demanding more than pictures of puppies, and making me cry for what seems like a very good reason.
My ovaries have been going through the motions, faking it for more than a decade. I started taking birth control in the spring of 2000, ostensibly to clear up my still-teenage skin and to regulate my unpredictable periods. So I haven’t ovulated since I was 18, when Bill Clinton was president and we’d never even heard of Survivor.
And suddenly, or not so suddenly, after years under our strict regime, we fall out of step at the sight of a tiny foot. We Google our egg supply’s rate of decline. We feel womanly in ways that are embarrassing.
I just turned 29. Ted celebrated by taking me to one of my favorite restaurants on the Lower East Side; the universe celebrated by seating us next to a toddler singing Old McDonald where we were waited upon by a tall, blonde, and beautifully pregnant woman. And I felt old.
Because 29 is so close to 30, impossible to ignore, impossible to pretend it’s mid-20s and impossible to pretend there’s all the time in the world. And maybe all those years of forcing my hormones into hibernation has just been pushing snooze on my biological clock, and maybe if my ovaries are trying to wake up, maybe it’s time.
There was a short list of things I made, once, of things I needed before I was ready: The walls I’ve got, in Brooklyn of all places, where people come when they need space for a stroller. The health insurance is taken care of. And I’m pretty sure I’ve found the person I want to do it with. There was that time my mom laughed at me when I told her I’d rather have a washing machine than a baby. Well, I’ve got my washing machine.
My body, my choice? My education, my career, my bank account, my city, my boyfriend, my Better Judgment. . . It’s not my body that is making this choice.
I keep chemically regulating, shutting down, postponing. But at 29, the math is hard to ignore, and so is the hollow yearning that makes me feel like one of Those Women. Women, not girls anymore.
And I’m sorry I cried, sorry I got impatient, sorry I wanted more than what we have right here, now, in this apartment that feels like it chose us. I’m greedy for a lifetime of things, but most of all I want you. It’s that that makes me feel ready, and that that makes me willing to wait.
~beatrix
p.s. I do not recommend leaving this tab open on your computer for at least a week like someone might have: http://nymag.com/news/features/69789/
Showing posts with label math. Show all posts
Showing posts with label math. Show all posts
22.1.11
6.3.10
scheduling conflicts
I might have spent a good part of the day doing math, and finally asked, before he fell asleep.
“That crazy thing you said today in the car. . . . Did you mean by the time you are thirty? Or while you are thirty?”
“If I said while I’m thirty, would you feel better?”
“Yes.”
When he said that thing in the car, my first thought was “Impossible”. “At least half joking,” he’d tempered it. He’ll have the birthday in three and a half years, almost to the day. He’s right. It’s not impossible.
“I’ve just always thought my parents were 30, and I turned out fine,” he told me in bed, “And, you know, your parents were younger, and you turned out fine. It just seems like 30 would be a good time to at least think about it.”
I am glad I was so sleepy. Sleepy enough to let go of the numbers, the adding and subtracting, enough to worry about it later, enough to fall asleep in that cozy spot between his bony shoulders and his rib cage, between excited and terrified.
~beatrix
“That crazy thing you said today in the car. . . . Did you mean by the time you are thirty? Or while you are thirty?”
“If I said while I’m thirty, would you feel better?”
“Yes.”
When he said that thing in the car, my first thought was “Impossible”. “At least half joking,” he’d tempered it. He’ll have the birthday in three and a half years, almost to the day. He’s right. It’s not impossible.
“I’ve just always thought my parents were 30, and I turned out fine,” he told me in bed, “And, you know, your parents were younger, and you turned out fine. It just seems like 30 would be a good time to at least think about it.”
I am glad I was so sleepy. Sleepy enough to let go of the numbers, the adding and subtracting, enough to worry about it later, enough to fall asleep in that cozy spot between his bony shoulders and his rib cage, between excited and terrified.
~beatrix
21.9.09
blah blah babies gross blah
I was the tiniest bit concerned that Pete would try to make this thing with Pamela work just to. . . be done. And on some level, I told him, I would understand that.
“Yeah, but you are young. I’m old. You have time.”
“I know, I know. But I’m a girl, so I have a shorter shelf-life. And I don’t want to be one of those women who bores everyone by talking about her fertility treatments.”*
I have a few simple life goals: I never want to live in New Jersey, I never want to work in a cubicle, and I never, never want to become one of those crazy girls who’s just out to catch a husband.
But it doesn’t mean I don’t know how to think like a crazy girl.
I remember coming up with a formula while sitting in the backseat of someone’s car, rolling down Magazine Street. Evie was there, and we couldn’t have been more than twenty-one. Here’s how it went:
If I want the option of having babies by the time I’m 30,
It might take a year to make that happen. = 29
It makes sense to have two years of newlywed bliss before any of that nonsense. = 27
I’ll need to be engaged for a year to plan a dream wedding. = 26
I need to know someone for a year before I decide to marry him.
Therefore, I need to meet the boy I’m going to marry by the time I’m 25.
No one in the car could argue with this flawless logic. But if you aren’t willing to compromise your promise to yourself to not just marry someone because you know he’d do it, you could end up two years behind that schedule you made. At least two years. Two years at the barest minimum.
************
We couldn’t go to the beach because of the weather, so we went to the American Museum of Natural History. A museum with dinosaur bones and lots of animals on a rainy Saturday just before the start of the school year meant one thing-- the place was positively swarming with children.
It turns out we aren’t used to being around the below-the-knees set, and we kept having to catch each other by the arms to prevent the accidental backing over of toddlers.
We saw the whole museum, stopped for a cupcake break in the hallway, were generally mushy and gross, and (at least half of us) were alternately entranced by and trying to ignore the millions of babies.
In the whale room, a tiny girl (6 months old? 9 months old? A whole year maybe? I don’t know these things.) passed us in a stroller. Her hand was up, fingers splayed, and she was looking at Ted with liquid-blue eyes and a uterus-wrenching smile.
“Did she blow you a kiss?”
He half shrugged, “I made a face.”
************
Why am I even thinking about babies?
Babies. . . well. . . They mostly gross me out. First they’re a little person inside a regular person, which is gross like morning sickness and parasites and aliens. Then they’ve got to come out, which is gross like stretching and tearing and forget wearing your skinny jeans ever again. And then you’ve got a baby. . . for. . . forever. Which is a long time. And that’s gross like diapers and making plans for a sitter and college funds.
And what would I even do with one if I had one? I’m not just talking about where would I put it (though Ted insists that his parents kept him in a drawer), but what would I do with it. When I tried to hold my new baby cousin, his sister, 7 years old at the time, laughed at me because I looked so funny and because he just wouldn’t stop crying. “Maybe you should get a pillow,” she told me, “He might like a little more cushion.” It was a two-pronged jab at my lack of both baby-holding skills and any bosom to speak of.
So it’s possible that I don’t want any babies at all. But I’d like to keep my options open.
*For the record: I would never actually use any sort of fertility treatment. Expensive, invasive, and leaving you at risk of never being able to remember all the names or own any normal sort of car (John and Kate - style), I think that fertility treatments are unnecessary given the number of children already out there looking for parents.
~beatrix
23.7.09
7
“It’s funny how every time you introduce me to people, ‘This is my girlfriend,’ they’re like ‘Really?! It’s about time.’”
“Yeah. . . I’ve always dated a lot, but the girlfriend thing is new. You know.”
“My friends would be more like, ‘Oh, just another one.’ But really I think you’re only like my sixth boyfriend ever.”
“Hmm. Six is a multiple of three, and they say the third time’s a charm.”
“Wait. Seventh. You’re seventh. . . . But seven is lucky. They say that, too.”
“Mmm. . . We’ll see.”
“Yeah, we’ll see.”
~beatrix
“Yeah. . . I’ve always dated a lot, but the girlfriend thing is new. You know.”
“My friends would be more like, ‘Oh, just another one.’ But really I think you’re only like my sixth boyfriend ever.”
“Hmm. Six is a multiple of three, and they say the third time’s a charm.”
“Wait. Seventh. You’re seventh. . . . But seven is lucky. They say that, too.”
“Mmm. . . We’ll see.”
“Yeah, we’ll see.”
~beatrix
16.7.09
are you in?
I was eating a sandwich and watching Ted make a casserole. I know his birthday, and he knows mine, it turns out.
His is soon. Mine is far.
“But my birthday is always sucky,” I told him, and it’s true. For years and years it’s ranged to mediocre to really miserable.
“Well, then I have a goal for this year,” with a glance over his shoulder.
He turns back to chopping chicken and misses the wide-eyed, eyebrow-raised face I make.
I should let it go. But I want to hear him say it.
“So. You think you’ll be around for my birthday? It’s a long time.”
We count off months. It’s far. We’d both more than double our adult dating records.
“At this point, I have no reason to think I won’t be.”
And even though his casserole looks disgusting, neither do I.
~beatrix
His is soon. Mine is far.
“But my birthday is always sucky,” I told him, and it’s true. For years and years it’s ranged to mediocre to really miserable.
“Well, then I have a goal for this year,” with a glance over his shoulder.
He turns back to chopping chicken and misses the wide-eyed, eyebrow-raised face I make.
I should let it go. But I want to hear him say it.
“So. You think you’ll be around for my birthday? It’s a long time.”
We count off months. It’s far. We’d both more than double our adult dating records.
“At this point, I have no reason to think I won’t be.”
And even though his casserole looks disgusting, neither do I.
~beatrix
1.6.09
escape plans
I have a simple life. I have a tiny apartment and a straightforward job. Yet somehow this little life requires eleven keys. Eleven. Plus two to my parents’ house that I think are in the cabinet over my stove. And I used to have the three to David’s. So there were sixteen, all in all.
But one of mine is funny; I’ve never seen one like it. It’s uncopy-able as far as I can tell. I ask whenever I’m in a hardware store, never with any luck.
I used to call it the breakup key. I told David that one day he’d come over and my door would be locked with both locks and that would be it. He’d know.
With Cooper, it was a joke he’d make.
“You don’t like puppies?” I’d demand.
“I like puppies. With a little salt and pepper. . . .”
I told him that one day he’d say it, and I’d just turn and walk away from him and it would be over. All the better if it happened in the Park, because then we could both just walk home.
That’s not the way either of those stories ended. They were jokes. They just weren’t funny.
I’m a cynic. A cynic with an escape plan. Looking for the problem with this one.
~beatrix
But one of mine is funny; I’ve never seen one like it. It’s uncopy-able as far as I can tell. I ask whenever I’m in a hardware store, never with any luck.
I used to call it the breakup key. I told David that one day he’d come over and my door would be locked with both locks and that would be it. He’d know.
With Cooper, it was a joke he’d make.
“You don’t like puppies?” I’d demand.
“I like puppies. With a little salt and pepper. . . .”
I told him that one day he’d say it, and I’d just turn and walk away from him and it would be over. All the better if it happened in the Park, because then we could both just walk home.
That’s not the way either of those stories ended. They were jokes. They just weren’t funny.
I’m a cynic. A cynic with an escape plan. Looking for the problem with this one.
~beatrix
9.2.09
how old are you again??
I’ve learned that there are certain topics, that when brought up in conversation with older guys, will highlight your age difference.
When I was 22 and dating a 27-year-old, I learned that you have to be careful talking about music you liked in middle school
“MC Hammer?”
“Um, no. More like the Gin Blossoms. . . .”
When I was 23 and chatting up a 29-year-old on an airplane shuttle, I learned to be careful when referencing cK1:
“I thought it was, like, the coolest thing ever in seventh grade.”
“Seventh grade? Really? I think I wore it sophomore year of college. . . .”
And at 26, dating a 35-year-old, I figured out that you should just be careful when talking about what you were doing in any specific year pre-puberty:
“I guess I haven’t been there in a long time. I used to go there all the time when I was studying for the LSAT, so I guess it was. . . what? . . 1994?”
“Nineteen ninety four??”
“Yeah. What were you doing in 1994?”
“Sixth grade.”
But as long as no one thinks about how you were wearing Keds and watching Nickelodeon in your parents’ living room while he was hooking up with some girl whose last name he can’t remember in a shady college dorm room, dating an older guy can be a really positive experience. So maybe he’s more likely to have a broken engagement or failed career or major financial crisis under his belt, but he’s also more likely to have a fantastic job, a mortgage to something nice, and Friday night plans to watch t.v. and eat take-out (and I consider this a total bonus).
But how old is too old? My personal limit comes when a boy has more in common with my parents than with me. And I have young parents. Like, really young. When they were my age, they were married, had two kids, and were so sure of the decisions they’d made that my dad had had a vasectomy two years previously. So, I’m 27 and my parents just turned 50. Do the math: that leaves us with a 23 year gap, which, when we divide by two, is 11 and half years. Round down to eleven, to put the number on my side. Add twenty-seven and eleven, and you’ll see that, by the numbers, I can date boys up to 38 years of age.
Thirty-eight, though, seems dangerously close to 40. I went out with a guy who was 41 a few months ago as an experiment, and that is definitely too old. I was almost embarrassed to be seen with him because I was just wondering what people thought we were doing, and I was painfully aware of how many of my stories begin, “One time in college. . . .“ My real-life cut-off seems to be closer to 36.
Pete is 36. (I’m not dating Pete, but I wouldn’t mind kissing him again.) While doing some Facebook stalking this week, I noticed one of his groups is planning a 20-year high school reunion. Twenty years. I can do the math. He’s almost ten years older than me, and my ten-year reunion is coming up (maybe it’s my hesitance to accept it that makes it so easy to forget).
Yeah. Sometimes it’s better to just not think about numbers.
~beatrix
When I was 22 and dating a 27-year-old, I learned that you have to be careful talking about music you liked in middle school
“MC Hammer?”
“Um, no. More like the Gin Blossoms. . . .”
When I was 23 and chatting up a 29-year-old on an airplane shuttle, I learned to be careful when referencing cK1:
“I thought it was, like, the coolest thing ever in seventh grade.”
“Seventh grade? Really? I think I wore it sophomore year of college. . . .”
And at 26, dating a 35-year-old, I figured out that you should just be careful when talking about what you were doing in any specific year pre-puberty:
“I guess I haven’t been there in a long time. I used to go there all the time when I was studying for the LSAT, so I guess it was. . . what? . . 1994?”
“Nineteen ninety four??”
“Yeah. What were you doing in 1994?”
“Sixth grade.”
But as long as no one thinks about how you were wearing Keds and watching Nickelodeon in your parents’ living room while he was hooking up with some girl whose last name he can’t remember in a shady college dorm room, dating an older guy can be a really positive experience. So maybe he’s more likely to have a broken engagement or failed career or major financial crisis under his belt, but he’s also more likely to have a fantastic job, a mortgage to something nice, and Friday night plans to watch t.v. and eat take-out (and I consider this a total bonus).
But how old is too old? My personal limit comes when a boy has more in common with my parents than with me. And I have young parents. Like, really young. When they were my age, they were married, had two kids, and were so sure of the decisions they’d made that my dad had had a vasectomy two years previously. So, I’m 27 and my parents just turned 50. Do the math: that leaves us with a 23 year gap, which, when we divide by two, is 11 and half years. Round down to eleven, to put the number on my side. Add twenty-seven and eleven, and you’ll see that, by the numbers, I can date boys up to 38 years of age.
Thirty-eight, though, seems dangerously close to 40. I went out with a guy who was 41 a few months ago as an experiment, and that is definitely too old. I was almost embarrassed to be seen with him because I was just wondering what people thought we were doing, and I was painfully aware of how many of my stories begin, “One time in college. . . .“ My real-life cut-off seems to be closer to 36.
Pete is 36. (I’m not dating Pete, but I wouldn’t mind kissing him again.) While doing some Facebook stalking this week, I noticed one of his groups is planning a 20-year high school reunion. Twenty years. I can do the math. He’s almost ten years older than me, and my ten-year reunion is coming up (maybe it’s my hesitance to accept it that makes it so easy to forget).
Yeah. Sometimes it’s better to just not think about numbers.
~beatrix
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