A few months ago, a friend of mine picked up a Tums bottle, eyed the expiration date, and let out an enormous sigh. “2013?” she said anxiously. “You know, all I can think about is, I better be married by then.”
Now, a month before my 30th birthday, I know what she means.
She was voicing that eternal frustration which — despite professional accomplishments, medical advancements, and countless hours of downward-facing dogs — is felt by single women of a certain age, who just can’t get their biological clocks to shut up.
We don’t want to imagine our eggs shriveling up and dying. We don’t mean to scare off potential mates with talk of diapers and Kindermusik. We never had any intention of displaying photos of our two-year-old nephew’s smiling face to cringing co-workers. But we do it anyway.
It seems that every woman I know is either pregnant or has just given birth. In December, I’ll attend my fourth baby shower in five months. Even the waitress at the bar where my office holds weekly staff meetings is pregnant. So is the editor who sits beside me at those meetings.
So, one can see where my psychosis is coming from. But here’s the worst part: I know these baby-crazed thoughts are ridiculous. I’m educated and cynical enough to understand that an infant’s warm weight against my chest is not a prescription for eternal happiness or fulfillment.
Still, this past weekend, when I was visiting my two-year-old nephew, I was greeted every morning by cries of “Yeee-sa!” and an exuberant toddler hug around the knees. And it occurred to me that such a greeting could make me happy for a very, very long time.
