I feel the hairs on my arms stand up. Oh my god! My parents sit around talking about my fertility? Did my dad agree to this?
Before I can form a response, I hear the sound of the garage door opening and my mom hurriedly reaches over and pats my hand again. “I won’t say anymore. Just think about it, okay?” she says.
“Lunch has arrived,” my dad calls out from the kitchen.
WHILE WE EAT, we talk about the neighbors, goings-on at their golf club, my mom’s ideas about renovating their master bath. I can barely participate in conversation because my head is still spinning from my mom’s suggestion. I wouldn’t let her pay for anything for the wedding because she’d have too much say; and so I can’t even imagine what sort of ownership she’d feel over my harvested eggs. Though it’s a generous offer, I have the feeling it would come with an even higher price.
When my mom not-so-casually mentions that one of her friend’s sons is recently divorced and living in the city, and wouldn’t it be nice if we met up, my dad stops her, saying, “Theresa, give the girl a break.” His coming to my defense makes me think he’s not privy to my mom’s egg scheming ways.
When I leave the house, my mom stuffs pamphlets from a fertility clinic into my purse. “Here. You should read these.” Geez. Did she see Neil’s email and then immediately run out to get these?
When I leave my parents’ house, I don’t trust myself to drive on the expressway yet; and so I decide to do a drive around my old neighborhood, which is filled with a combination of stately old homes, Victorians, Tudors, and Colonials, mixed in with newer construction, though also made to look old. I pass my old friend Lisa’s house, where I spent many a slumber party. Her mother was the quintessential mom, warm and comforting like the fresh chocolate chip cookies she would bake us. Just passing the house calms my frazzled nerves.
Lisa and her husband moved back to the neighborhood a few streets down. They have two kids who will grow up riding their bikes on the same streets, spending their time in the Village like we did, and going to the same high school. When I had been planning my future with Neil, I too had thought about moving back here and even looked at real estate listings, dreaming about a yard where our kids could play and grow up alongside my friends’ kids. But as I drive down these streets, suddenly this life doesn’t feel right anymore. Maybe I’ve been in the city too long. Or maybe it’s because our kids wouldn’t really grow up together because I’m already so far behind (and according to my mom, getting even farther). Or maybe it’s something else entirely. I might not know what I want in my life right now, but I’m afraid it’s no longer this.
I turn the car around and head back to my condo in the city.
ONCE HOME, I try to shake off my conversation with my mom this afternoon and pull out my new journal from its bag. I settle in at my kitchen table with a cup of green tea, my notebook open, and a pen in hand. I turn to the back pages of the breakup book and get to work.
What reason did he give you for breaking up?
First question in and I’m already tempted to replace my tea with wine, but I carry on and write: He wasn’t in love with me anymore and was in love with my maid of honor. Talking about it with Jordan was one thing; seeing it in black and white is another.
And what was the real reason you broke up?
I again write: He wasn’t in love with me anymore and was in love with my maid of honor.
No, really. What was the real reason you broke up?
I again write: He wasn’t in love with me anymore and was in love with my maid of honor.
No, really. What was the real real reason you broke up? Dig deep.
This lady doesn’t give up. After reading her book, I’m not even sure I could narrow it down to one reason, but I try. I write: Because we weren’t meant to be together in the first place. With that one sentence the floodgates in my mind open, and I write. I write until my hand cramps. I write until there is nothing left to write because I never want to write any of these words again. I write about how I never felt secure. I write about how I never fully trusted him to stay with me. I write about how I gave up who I was in the name of compromise, or really, that it was always a one-sided compromise, me giving up what I wanted in order to keep the peace, to keep our relationship, to get the ring, to get to the altar. And, finally, to get the child I so desperately wanted. That, really, when it came down to it, we didn’t want the same things, but by the time I realized that, it was too late because I was determined to keep our failing relationship alive. Then the second I stopped, when I thought I was secure, that’s when it all fell apart anyway.
As I write, tears slide down my cheeks and drip onto the page. When my eyesight becomes too blurry, I put down my pen and give in to my crying. Naturally, in hindsight, it’s easy to see all the ways the relationship wasn’t working; but I knew at the time too, and I just kept thinking if I worked harder, our relationship would work. I thought I was in love with him; but after his betrayal, I can’t quite remember the good feelings right now. And with all this journaling, I realize that I’m not even sure I hate him for breaking my heart, so much as for breaking his promise for our future.
We met when I was twenty-nine, when most of my friends were already newly married or engaged, and the big three-oh loomed large in my mind. Though now at thirty-five, I’m realizing how silly I was. Looking back, it was kinda how I laughed when my friends and I turned twenty-five and thought we were “so old”—a whole quarter of a century! But the one thing that doesn’t lie is a woman’s ability to have children. While many of my friends and acquaintances are having healthy babies in their late thirties or even early forties, the truth is that it wasn’t so easy for them. There were expensive and time-consuming medical efforts involved and, unfortunately, a lot of depressing news and strain on their marriages until their first child was born. Right now, as much as I hate to admit it, my mother’s advice to start freezing my eggs ASAP seems prudent.
So this is where I am in my life—alone, jobless, writing in a diary, and thinking of freezing my eggs. Suddenly I’m much less enthused about this whole self-reflection experiment, and instead decide to order some Thai food and turn on Bravo where Bethenny is mid-meltdown—I hear ya, girl! Normally, while “watching” television I’ll mindlessly surf the web on my iPad, but today I’d be too tempted to check email, Facebook, and my other social media outlets, where there will be reminders of my complete loserdom. Tonight, I just want to hibernate as I chastise myself for wasting the last five years of my life with someone who wasn’t right for me.
Whereas before my mind couldn’t handle all the grief and coped by sleeping for twelve hours, now my mind won’t turn off, and I can’t seem to fall asleep until the wee hours of the morning. Due to my insomniac sleep schedule, I miss my usual Monday six thirty Barre class and am instead at an eleven o’clock yoga class at my gym. As soon as I set down my mat and watch the others trickle in, I wish I stayed at home. From their conversation, I glean that it’s a stay-at-home mom crowd who all seem to know each other; reminding me that I’m both jobless and childless.
“Do you mind scooching your mat over?” I look up to see a woman in expensive yoga gear and a tight smile standing over me.