On Second Thought(13)

The other single men I knew...well, the truth was, I knew only a few. Most of them were ex-cons, as I volunteered at the Re-Enter Center of Brooklyn, a place where parolees could take classes to help them adapt to life on the outside. I taught small business management with a little photography thrown in for fun. And while I was all for forgiveness, chances were quite small that I’d marry a guy with a teardrop tattooed under his eye.

Paige and I would assure each other that being single was great. Our lives were full and fun and we loved our careers. Look at other women! Just because they were in relationships didn’t make their lives meaningful! Paige had two sisters and seven nieces and nephews, and both sisters were wretched and exhausted. One was contemplating a mommy makeover to lift her boobs and shed her fat and get her husband to sleep with her again; the other, Paige was pretty sure, was about to come out of the closet.

My own sister...well, okay, Ainsley was happy, but kind of...how to put this? Naive. Retro in her worship of all things Eric, always putting herself second, despite the fact that she’d had a very impressive job. She took care of Eric in a way he never took care of her; he was the star in the couple, and she had a supporting role. It bugged me.

I was different. Paige, too. We were self-fulfilled. And what about that fabulous trip we’d taken last year to London, huh? We should plan another! Vienna this time? Or Provence?

Then a couple would walk by, a baby strapped to one parent, an adorable toddler wearing an ironic T-shirt holding hands with the other, and we’d falter. “Screw it,” Paige would say. “If only there were mail-order husbands.”

If only I had a gay male friend who’d pony up and coparent with me! Not only would we have a wonderful child, we could write a great screenplay about it. Alas, no—my gay friends, Jake and Josh, already had Jamison, so that was out.

I told myself it was okay. After all, I didn’t need a baby. The world was overpopulated, there were teenagers I could adopt, etc.

But then I’d visit my brother and watch him and Kiara with their kids. The rush of love and gratitude I’d always felt over the years when my niece or nephew would run to see me, or more recently, at least come out of their rooms to see me. Sadie still snuggled, at least. Granted, I wasn’t like my sister, who had to sniff the head of every baby we saw and chat up the mother for details on the birth, but I loved kids.

Brooklyn was full of babies. I wanted someone to cuddle, someone I could carry and stare at during naptimes—not in a creepy way, but in a loving, maternal glow. Someone who would call me Mommy and reach for my hand without thinking, the way Esther still did with Kiara, the way Sadie reached out for my brother. I found myself eyeing pregnant teenagers, wondering what they’d say if I casually asked if they’d consider giving me their unborn child.

It was always there, the primal call to procreate and protect. The maternal instinct is the strongest force in nature, they say. But I wanted the whole package, too. I wanted there to be a daddy. Aside from the maternal thing, there was that secret desire to be...well...adored.

It was not something that was cool to admit. With each passing year, the idea of being smitten with someone, having someone smitten with me, became more and more distant, even a little absurd, as if I still expected Santa to come on Christmas Eve.

Birthdays became a bit of a shock. Thirty-five, thirty-six...they were fine. They were great, even. I knew who I was, my reputation was growing, I was making a nice income, teaching classes, traveling.

But thirty-seven...and then thirty-eight...the very digits had a tint of desperation to them. Late thirties sounded so much older than midthirties. Checking the box “never married” made me feel as isolated as an Ebola patient. I found myself getting more and more obsessed, looking at every passing male as my potential mate—the guy at the dry cleaners, the guy who delivered my pizza, the guy who bumped into me in front of Whole Foods.

And then came thirty-nine, and something great happened.

I just...stopped.

My friends and siblings took me out for a surprise dinner—Paige; Ainsley and Eric; Jake and Josh; my occasional assistant, Max, and his wife; Sean and Kiara. They toasted me and gave me insulting cards. Paige gave me a box of Depends diapers, which was a little mean, I thought. She was only two months younger than I was. Jake and Josh gave me a full cadre of crazy-expensive skin care products specifically designed for aging skin. From Sean and Kiara, a day at a spa for a rejuvenation package. From Ainsley and Eric, same spa, same treatment.

“No embalming fluid?” I asked, getting a laugh.

“This is from the gentleman at the bar,” our server said, setting a fresh martini in front of me. I turned; there was Daniel the Hot Firefighter, who winked at me and resumed fondling the ass of his latest False Alarm. Sure. He’d buy me a drink. He’d never sleep with me. I’d aged out fifteen years ago.

I waved my thanks, looked back at my friends and family, smiled and simply gave up.

No more dating. I took down my online profiles, stopped scanning Prospect Park’s softball teams and forbid myself to watch anything on the Hallmark Channel.

I was surprised by what a relief it was.

Suddenly, I was happier than I’d been in years. I’d lived in the same gorgeous apartment since college, bought with a hefty loan from my parents just before Brooklyn prices boomed. If I ever needed the money, I could sell it for nearly five times what I paid for it. My classes at the Re-Enter Center were always full. I had a small but tight circle of friends and a slightly dysfunctional but pretty good family.