Lately, I've been thinking a lot about myself and my life. And I have to admit, I'm not exactly thrilled with the results of this post-game analysis. Sure, I've achieved a lot. But I'm missing the one thing that actually matters—a family.
I never thought I'd be the type to suffer from loneliness. To be honest, until today, I wouldn't even admit it to myself. I always saw myself as an empowered, independent woman. A feminist. But lately, everywhere I look, it feels like the world is populated exclusively by young couples and toddlers. Wait. Am I actually jealous?
Let's look at the facts once and for all. I'm thirty years old. The days of reckless passion are over. At this age, you realize that the fairy-tale version of love—that feeling of being invincible—doesn't exist. But... God, I still want it. I want it just as much as I ever did. When I was fifteen, I thought no one understood me, like the whole world had turned its back. That was my first taste of loneliness. I cried because I was alone, and I felt like I had a right to be loved.
I remember a friend from high school, Chloe, pulled me out of that funk once. She just showed up while I was moping and dragged me out for a walk. She felt like a guardian angel back then. But who's going to dry my tears now?
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I'm over thirty, and I don't believe in guardian angels anymore. I don't believe in "happily ever after" either. At this age, love is cautious and calculated. You want to take, but you're stingy about giving. The cynicism doesn't even surprise me anymore. For instance, I hooked up with my best friend's husband. Afterward, I told him, "Keep your mouth shut. Not a word." And he, the idiot, just sprawled out, stretched contentedly, and said dreamily, "Man... why can't people just fly like birds?"
I looked down at him with pure condescension. I wanted to say, "Because you were born to crawl, you moron." He's a loser! And yet my friend lives with him and sings his praises. She looks down her nose at me because I'm still without a husband or kids. And it's not like I haven't had plenty of guys chasing me!
How many people did I undervalue? How many did I fail to hear or truly see? Maybe, back when I was young, proud, and untouchable, I walked right past my one true love. If I hadn't been so arrogant, I wouldn't be sitting here in this heavy, shameful silence. Where are they now? Those burning gazes and the warm hands of the boys who used to love me?
Cynicism and sentimentality live side-by-side in my head. I get all misty-eyed when I see young couples with strollers, but then I feel a surge of spiteful joy when I see a husband and wife screaming at each other. Am I jealous? No, no, and no. I've never been that person. Am I just getting old? It feels too early for that. Fewer suitors? Well, yes. Is it because my looks are fading? No.
I've just become "wiser" about life, love, and men. I've become more selective. This one is a boring conversationalist; that one is terrible in bed; the other one is a total player. I have no desire to settle for less.
I still crave the tender kisses and the heated embraces, but a relationship without a deep, soulful connection is impossible for me now. But where do you find that person?
What's currently in my "arsenal"? A forty-year-old "eternal boy" who wastes away at a dying research lab and loves to remind everyone that "Einstein, like me, was a theoretical physicist." An artist who spends gallery openings stealing leftovers and half-empty bottles of wine from the buffet. A penniless photographer with a terrible attitude who happens to speak five languages. No thanks. I have zero desire to share a bed with any of them, or raise kids, or bicker over chores just to have a dramatic makeup session. Is this why I was a straight-A student, graduated top of my class, and started my own firm? Just for one of them?
"I love you." Those words have been worn thin by humanity. Now, I want someone who says them sincerely, from the heart—not some thrill-seeker who uses those "sacred" words as a distraction while he frantically peels off your clothes, leaves sloppy kisses on your neck, and fakes a seizure at the sight of your naked body.
I'm sick of it all. I look every man who tries to claim my heart right in the eye, hoping for a spark of something real. But so far, nothing.
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The phone rang. It was my long-time friend, Victoria. She's an old maid and a world-class whiner. She's on an endless quest for "Eternal Love." She's like a character out of a Victorian novel—she still lives by principles she read in the classics, like "die before you kiss without love" or "you are responsible for what you have tamed." Though, she's never managed to tame anyone. Her looks leave something to be desired. She has what you'd call a "homestead" face: a potato nose, skinny legs, and breasts that look like zucchinis. But she's incredibly smart. Sometimes I actually find her interesting.
"Hey, Val! I'm so bored. Let's go somewhere," she said.
"Vic, not today. I just want to lounge on the couch with a book all day."
"Oh, come on. You always do this. And I had so much to tell you... That guy called me again!"
"Ugh, Victoria, don't start. I'll call you back later."
I hung up with a sigh of relief. She would have spent thirty minutes telling me about some ridiculous "affair" with an elderly writer who tried to seduce her with poetry—allegedly his own. Victoria, being her gullible self, went over to his place dreaming of candles and champagne. Instead, he sat her down at a dirty kitchen table covered in newspaper and pulled out a bottle of cheap gin.
"Now, Victoria, listen to what I penned the other day," he said. "'Never forget how the water rushes to the dock, and how the air is as firm as a life preserver!'"
"Oh, he picked the wrong girl for that," I muttered. Victoria had jumped up as soon as he finished. "How dare you! Those are lines from T.S. Eliot!" she screamed at him.
"Well, aren't you the little scholar, sweetheart?" he sneered and tried to grab her.
She fought him off and spent the rest of the evening sobbing in my kitchen. And yet, she still hadn't completely ruled the creep out as a candidate.
The prospect of gossiping about some loser didn't appeal to me. No, I needed to hang out with successful, family-oriented people. Like Sarah, my old college roommate. She's married to a wealthy businessman. They have everything. She loves to lecture me: "You're going to play around until it's too late, Val. Time is ticking. Soon, no one will even ask." I'll call her. Maybe she can come over for coffee.
I dialed her number. "Hey, Sarah! How's it going?"
"Oh my god, you won't believe it. Tommy had his appendix out yesterday. And we're sending Chloe to summer camp. As soon as Tommy is out of the hospital, Mark and I are taking the kids to the Bahamas for ten days!"
"That sounds nice," I mumbled. "Do you want to come over? I'm here all by myself. I've got the blues."
"Oh, I'd love to, but I have a million things to do. You know how it is."
Yeah, I know how it is. Husband, kids, the Bahamas... I can afford to fly to the Bahamas too. But what's the point? Going alone? Boring. Going with Victoria? She's always broke. Tagging along with Sarah? I don't think she'd want me there. What would they need me for? They're a family.
I started thinking about my loneliness again. A wave of melancholy hit me. I remembered how, for years, I mocked my friends as they dropped like flies and got married.
"Go ahead!" I'd joke. "In a year, you'll be housewives buried in diapers and crockpots. Not me. I'm going to build a career and have my fun. I'll look around... and then I'll pick the most advantageous groom."
And how did that work out? It's like that old fable about the grasshopper and the ant. I spent the summer singing, and before I knew it, winter was here. No. Enough. I'm not thinking about this anymore. At the end of the day, I've lived with dignity. I have a great career. I have a gorgeous apartment, a car, and money. Plus, I have wonderful parents who have been together for forty-five years and still flirt like teenagers.
Sure, it's easy for them; they have each other. I imagined my own old age, alone. It was depressing. Listen, honey, I told myself. Let's make a deal. Just assume that true love will happen eventually. And if it doesn't, we'll just say you were a romantic soul. Stop obsessing over your "fate" as a woman.
I stood up from the couch and went into the kitchen. I made some strong tea and cut a huge slice of the honey cake I'd bought at the deli yesterday. My waistline? To hell with it. Let them love me for who I am! The cake was delicious. I could have baked it myself, actually. I remember back in college, when I was head-over-heels for a classmate, I wanted to impress him and baked a honey cake just like this one. Oh, man. Where are you now, Nick? We were so in love. We would have been a beautiful couple. He practically begged me to marry him! And I just laughed in his face. "Marriage? We're too young. Besides, first loves never last." I only thought about my career. Back then, I thought, What kind of husband would he be? He'll just spend his life as some low-level engineer at a factory. He has no drive. Now I realize: he was the only one I ever truly loved. Since then, he'd become very successful, got married, had a son... and then I lost track of him. I heard he lived in the States for a few years and then moved back.
Just then, my cell phone rang. An unknown number flashed on the screen.
"Hello? Hi," a painfully familiar voice said. "Hey, by any chance... is this Miss Sullivan?"
"Oh my god, Nick!" I screamed with joy. "I was literally just thinking about you. No, honey, I'm not Miss Sullivan—you know that. Where are you?"
"I'm home. I was... looking for an excuse to call you. My assistant told me some Miss Sullivan called the office. I thought, maybe it was you? Maybe you got married and changed your name? I think about you often. I miss you. I'm divorced now. And I wanted to ask: if you aren't married... will you marry me?"
"Nick, honey, sweetheart... come over right now! I'm waiting for you. I'm finally free..."
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