Shocking. I am officially distraught enough to put my therapist on speed dial. Except that I don't have a therapist. I'm beginning to revisit the notion that I may in fact need one again. Nobody tells you about turning 40. Nobody tells you there's no such thing as having it all. So I chose to have a career, which is all fine and well during the 20's and 30's. At least in my case. While friends were enduring baby weight, the 7 relationship year itch and forcable moves to the suburbs of whatever city they lived in when they were single, I was off shooting movies, having affairs with hot European men, sitting in private boxes at The French Open of Tennis in Paris, and buying designer handbags like they were going out of style. Which they were. Which is why I had to buy more. And it was grand.
Nobody tells you the thing you thought was an old wives tale, an urban myth of epic proportions, something that happens to other women - NOT ME! - suddenly enters your life and bounds on your lap like a Great Dane puppy that's been left alone all day and can hardly contain itself when you walk through the door at night.
Yes, that elusive biological clock is licking my face and jumping all over my designer clothes, making a mess of everything I thought I knew and wanted. It just showed up one day, evidently when I wasn't looking. Probably in the lunchroom at work. And while I may have the career, the friends, the money, and the best body I think I have ever had, I can't believe I want babies as badly as I do. And a husband who holds open doors. And is in charge. Hey, I'm tired. Not of my career. In fact I've never been more fulfilled. And not of my life. Not exactly. It's just that I've been working since I was 16 and I think I might want to stop for a while. But I'm scared to get off the career train because I might not be able to get back on once I'm off. And do I really even have to choose? Can't I be an amazing mother AND continue the career trajectory I'm on?
I can't believe I'm putting all this in writing. But it's true. One February day (I'm guessing the 6th which is when I turned the big 4-0), I realized I've done all I can do on my own in terms of personal growth. There's no more growing to be had - except for learning even more patience as I wade through the shallow dating pool that is single life in Los Angeles (when I say "shallow" I mean literally and figuratively). No more value in coming home to an empty house, or eating cereal for dinner because I can, and not having to talk to anyone from Friday night to Monday morning if I so choose until I'm back at work again. No... now I crave babies, and family, and cooking and nesting and nuzzling, and compromise, and stretching my insides out so that the man I lay beside every night can see the seams of my soul. Even the seams whose stitches are coming out, frayed, frazzled and a little dirty. I want a man, MY man to see the real me. One thing about being 40 is that I have no desire to hide those things like I used to. I no longer wish to send my "representative" on dates. I just want to show up as me, warts and all (this I mean purely figuratively) complete with battle scars, bad habits, and a wide array of idiosyncracies, so much so that if someone could actually get past the first 3 months of dating me, well then we both just might be on to something. I want that reflection back so I can keep evolving. Call me on my shit. Bend my ear when I'm being ridiculous. Take me over your shoulder and carry me off to bed when you want me. I'm down.
I want to be the woman who wants to make him want to be a better man. I want to be a woman a M-A-N spots across a room, and who in turn says to his friend, "See that woman? I'm gonna marry her," as he sips a quality bottle of wine (a 94 Montrachet perhaps?). And he does. Marry me. And he doesn't wait 5 years to do it. He just knows. And there's a trip to a nice ring store. Yes, I've also become a woman who values nice jewelry even though I still wear converse 6 out of 7 days of the week. Can I also attribute that to the 40's?
In turn, I want to give some version of that back to HIM. Whatever he needs, I'll do my absolute best to provide. I'll be a damn good partner. And I'll sure as shit call him on his own "stuff". But he'll be able to take it. As will I. It'll make us laugh. That's how mature we are. We can take it. 'Cos it's safe. And since I don't know him just yet, I wait with bated breath at the arrival of his laundry list of peccadilloes. I can't wait to see all that he is, good and bad.
And then we're just... married! Together we create our little space in the world. We laugh, listen to music, drink wine, travel, buy furniture, read books on the floor of some cool store in NYC or Prague or Bali, share our stories over tapas - the horrors as well as the triumphs. We slowly, organically and joyfully carve out a soft spot for each other to land. From there we raise babies, (2 though I'd be happy with one) and by virtue of the fact I am now a 24/7 model for their happiness both now and for the rest of their lives, I evolve beyond anything I could have ever dreamed. Because I have to. I want to raise dynamic, special people who contribute to the world. So I need to be on my best behavior. As a result, I love who I become. I love them and him, and us, our family, beyond anything I could have imagined. It's epic, and exhausting, and the next chapter. It's what I need. It's what I crave. It's what I find myself dreaming about. I can feel it, him, them. It's like I already know my little family. Except that I don't. They haven't arrived yet.
And the problem is, I have no idea how to find them....
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