Wednesday, July 29, 2009

30 and in the sea.

When you're young, you spend a lot of time dreaming up the perfect person. How they'll look, what they'll say, the romantic things they'll do for you and you alone. You create the perfect mate from scratch. A little Kirk Cameron, a little James Dean, a little David Cassidy for good measure. Never for a second do you doubt that the living embodiment of your dreams exists. He's real. He's out there somewhere. The world is your oyster. There's tons of fish in the sea. (Insert your favorite nautical metaphor here) It's just a matter of finding him. And the joy is in the search.

When you're old,...OK, old-er, you spend a lot of time revising that dream. You take what you've got and try to make it fit. You compromise. And not in a good way. So, he doesn't support gay marriage, believe in global warming, or recycle. At least he has his own apartment and pays for dinner. Sometimes. So, he was unfaithful. So, he texts so much you have to change your cell phone plan to accommodate his fear of actual one on one phone conversation. You decide you can live with that. You can live with lots of things. You surrender the fantasy. And you're surprised by how easily you give up the notion that perfection exists. You trade in your fishing pole for the shotgun and barrel. Easier, sure, but does it make for the best catch?

Monday, July 27, 2009

30 and worldly posessions

I house sit a lot. As an odd job or in conjunction with baby- or dog sitting. I sleep in other people's beds as a bit of a pastime. It's an odd experience. When my friends are home, say, hosting me as their guest for dinner, I would never go through their freezer just to see what's there. I would never walk around in my underwear, or leave my socks and shoes in the middle of their kitchen. But, here I am, master of their domains. I don't do anything inappropriate. I just kind of live in their houses. Then, when they come home, things snap right back into place, and I remain fully clothed, properly seated on their couches, pretending not to have intimate knowledge of their DVR recording habits.

It got me thinking about my own little home. I very seldom go away. And when I do, there is nothing to sit. No expensive electronics or jewelry to check in on, no pet, no baby (see my last post), not even a houseplant. Should I be getting stuff that needs to be 'sat for'? Am I behind some kind of curve here?

Sunday, July 26, 2009

30 and viable eggs

I have become religious about sunscreen. Every lotion I have now carries an SPF rating. I'm even sleeping in it (which may have more to do with my budget than UV protection, but still). I get cranky if I have too much sugar. I need sleep. Lots of it.

My hormones are insane.

Nowdays, the stray baby thought turns into hourlong reveries starring me in a maternity sundress selecting produce and being admired by passersby. "Look at her," they whisper. "She's got that glow!"

It's all feeling a little out of hand. How much time did I spend desperately trying NOT to get pregnant? Now, if the breeze blows the right way, I'll make any schmo my baby-daddy.

Frankly, I'm feeling old.