Tonight is the eve of my 37th birthday. I’ve got solo reservations at a local restaurant for tomorrow night. I’ve been treating myself to bodily delights this week: hiking, swimming, sauna, baths, yoga, beach walks. Just two months ago I mustered all my courage and moved to a new city, a whole new place, with lots of open space and nature. I find myself in a brief, coveted, very privileged moment of transition in which I have lots of free time. I’ve been blessed with visitors and I’m making new friends. I’m living the dream, as they say!
Some do say. Especially moms! Moms who would kill for just an hour alone. For just a bit more space so their partner won’t wake the baby while they take Zoom calls. So mom can take a bath and have just a moment of peace. And I…I’m in an odd in-between place. I’m grateful. And getting grounded. And feeling guilty. I’m very healthy and pretty happy and sometimes lonely. I’m single, solo, surrendering.
This age, this stage, has been offered several names: Spinster. Cougar. Old Maid. (The slogan for the game is literally “don’t become the old maid!” The goal is not to be left with the “odd card,” the one that cannot be paired. Ouch.) I have had some wonderful intimate relationships in my life thus far and now I know that I do desire partnership (perhaps this seems banally human to you, reader, but due to family history, interest in other things, and the fact that I may be what some deem a “late bloomer,” this is somewhat new information to me.) It’s funny to have been practicing so much for over a decade, through yoga and meditation and therapy, to “be here now” and now to find myself, well, here now. I’m a woman in my late 30s and I’ve never been married and I haven’t had a baby. It just kind of *shrug* hasn’t happened. And I don’t know when, how, with whom, or if it will. And I feel surprised by this.
Although I may have realized relatively recently that I long for intimate partnership and a shared life, one thing I’ve “known” since I was a little kid myself is that I wanted to have kids. I wanted to be a mom. At least I thought I knew. This felt clear and obvious for a long time. Someway, somehow, that would be what I did. I may be feminist, I may be educated, I may be an American woman, and yet, I don’t really have anything I’m planning to do so intently that I don’t want kids to get in the way. I never really saw myself doing anything else in particular. (Admittedly I’ve tried not to fall pregnant one hundred percent more times than I have tried to become pregnant…) In college I imagined someday going to a sperm bank when I was ready cause who needs a man. In my early 30s I decided I’d have a baby when I was 37 cause that was a long ways away and I wasn’t really ready anyhow. My mom had me when she was 36 and my brother when she was 40 so I figured I had the genes and the time. And, for a while, I had the partner. And now, the truth is, I just don’t know. I don’t quite fit in with the confident folks who’ve decidedly decided to be eccentric aunties. To be childfree by choice. To focus on profession or passion or partner. And I don’t quite fit in with the warrior mamas who spend energy, time, and tears on “trying,” IVF, surrogacy, fostering, or adoption. I still don’t feel particularly ready and I see how my mama friends covet my free time and it’s not like I’ve got potential papas knocking down my door. But I still think I’d like to have that human experience if I can. I suppose I have a lot of questions. And I just feel somewhat blindsided. Yes, there’s “still time.” Yes, I may meet someone great. Yes, all the things. And also, whoa. Also, who knows?! It feels odd to live as though I’m on the precipice. To feel as though I must decide something very soon but over something which I have little control. Sigh. Such is life. (See? Maybe I’d make a good mom.)
37 is a prime number. With some mental gymnastics, I’m deciding to redefine 37 as being in my prime and to cheers to the mystery. Happy birthday to me.
