I got my fucking nails done this weekend and it’s making it really hard to type. You would think as a writer I wouldn’t give into such frivolous crap because my craft comes first and using a keyboard is part of that craft, but I did. And it’s mostly because I want a boyfriend.
Well, I don’t really want a boyfriend exactly. Honestly, I’m looking for more a baby daddy. I want a kid. And I’m 34 and the chances that it’s going to happen get smaller every freaking time I get my stupid period.
The pressure to beat my biological clock feels like it’s suffocating me. And I have found myself literally dating with the sole goal of finding a real-life sperm donor.
It’s not going great.
I mean, don’t get me wrong, I also want a husband. But I don’t feel any particular rush to nail that part down. There’s no internal organ that stops letting me get married after a certain age.
But when it comes to children, there’s a deadline. And the problem is, it varies from woman to woman, so I can’t even be sure if I’ve already hit mine.
As I was driving through literal snow-covered streets Monday night on my way to meet up with a hot Venezuelan guy who had a dog, and I don’t even like dogs, I found myself wondering if I would actually be sincerely happy with this man if it was just him and me and no baby. And a dog. Like would I be thinking about a future with him if the only thing we had was real love between us?
I couldn’t be sure. But it did make me realize that I have been skewing my standards.
I often feel behind in life because of my health. It’s like I lost a bunch of years to the abyss because of my chronic pain. And even now, I’m on enough scary drugs that I honestly don’t know what would happen if I did have a baby. I have started asking all my doctors and mostly it’s a lot of “we would have to see” or “we would take you off that” or “I don’t know. Are you even seeing anyone?”
No. Ok. Gawd. I mean I was. I had a glorious six-week relationship with this hot Mexican guy that I thought might be going somewhere, but then I showed up at his house unexpectedly one Saturday night, and he wouldn’t let me inside. I’m pretty sure he was cheating on me, which was especially odd because he was the one who insisted on exclusivity in the first place. But a part of me wants to believe it was something less hurtful, like a secret cocaine habit, or an undercover FBI operation.
Regardless, we haven’t talked since. Which especially sucks because I left a pair of shoes there and now I’m never getting those back. And also, honestly, I had just bought us a bulk box of condoms and some fun new lubricants a few days before that, and now they are just sitting in his bedside drawer being unwrapped for the next girl.
So, you know, that’s heartbreaking.
You might be thinking, wait, condoms? I thought you wanted to get pregnant. And look, I probably would have tried with him. But there is something to be said for waiting a few weeks first. Because you never know when a guy has a secret cocaine habit.
I actually looked into freezing my eggs last night. I mean, there’s always that 401k Money I have that’s not doing anything. But it turns out even if you do that you still have to get pregnant by 38. That’s less than 4 years away guys! Why even bother?
So now, here I sit. My career is great. I just got a promotion actually. Typing hurts and I’m seriously debating taking some scissors to my acrylics. And my health is the roller coaster mess it always is.
And I’m single. And childless. And on Xanax. And I’m praying that someday soon, I won’t be any of those things.