A Pregnant Pause

I was asked once, "If you died today what would be the thing you most regretted not doing". Without a moment's hesitation I said, "Be pregnant". My answer took me by surprise, but after some introspection, I realized it was the absolute truth. Now being a single woman, I am well aware that my desire is not something that should be shouted from the rooftop. The same way men are not suppose to talk about breasts or wanting their wives to stay home; women are not suppose to mention or even hint at the fact they are ready to get married, have sexual desire, or (gasp) ready to make a commitment. Saying you want to be pregnant smacks of all three, and thus represents the utmost taboo. A woman can yammer on all day about her career, or how J. Crew has far superior jeans than The Gap, but one mention of wanting to use her uterus and men become very interested the grout pattern between the tiles under his feet. Perhaps men's Victorian attitude toward the matter stems from a fear that at any moment they will be drawn into a conversation about her cycle, or someone might mention the word "mucus", or they will be having mental flashes of what exactly an episiotomy is for the rest of the week.

My desire has been met with criticism in the past. The most memorable objection was when I was told, "You know at the end of pregnancy there is a screaming invalid to take care of". Yes, I can see how that would be a deterrent. I am by no means saying that I am not ready to have children; I am saying that my desires to be pregnant and to have a baby are not one in the same. They are completely independent of one another. I want to experience pregnancy; to watch my body grow and change, to fulfill its ultimate purpose. Everything we experience in this world comes to us through our senses; we experience the world through our bodies. I already know how great it feels to stretch my muscles after a great night sleep, the flush of blood in my cheeks when I sit in front of a heater, and how silky it is when I rub my freshly shaven leg together. But I am at the end; there is nothing left. I already know what it feels like when tears dry on my face, there is no mystery there. I am ready experience my body in a different way.

I want to know what it feels like to be kicked from the inside. I want to marvel at the sheer size of my swollen abdomen. I want every last one of the million other little experiences that I can't identify because pregnancy is so different than anything else my body has ever done. I want to know life from a different body, from the body of a pregnant woman. When I consider my body as this marvelous machine meant for a higher purpose, I can almost feel a separation of my body and spirit. Pregnancy and ultimately birth are my biological inheritance, it is the fulfillment of the promise made to me at puberty, it is the essence of my feminine heritage. Passing into pregnancy will induct me into a sisterhood that stretches out in both directions of time; connecting me to the score of women who have gone before and enable generations to follow.

Currently I lay fallow as a field and between my job at a fertility center, a pregnant man in the news, and the relative age group to which I belong, it seems everyone around me is pregnant. So at the chance of sounding politically incorrect and at the risk breaking the ultimate taboo, I say loud and unapologetic: I want to be pregnant!

Singlehood

Recently I had a friend send me all the old posts I had posted on my old blog before I switched over to blogger.com. I quite enjoyed reading over the more literary posts I had crafted, and figured that since I am too tired to blog tonight, I would instead repost a vintage piece entitled, "Singlehood".

(Twenty points to anyone who can post a comment on why this particular picture was chosen for this post)

Glancing at my calendar this week, I noticed that every day was booked except for last Tuesday night. I decided to make a date with myself and go eat at Jason's Deli and look for a new mixing bowl at Bed, Bath, and Beyond. I tell you, I am a wild one. A tray full of Beef Eater, strawberries, and Baked Lays in front of me and Jack Johnson's new album on my iPod left me in hog heaven. Two bites into my sandwich I spied a girl I went to nursing school with in line waving at me. Next to her was a tan Adonis who would make Brad Pitt question if he was still the hottest man in the room. I suddenly became acutely aware of my ponytail, hospital t-shirt, and au-juice running down my chin. As I quickly preened myself, she rounded the corner to reveal her swollen abdomen. The conversation started at her belly (twins), then moved on to her new husband (doctor), and her job (none, she is married to a doctor). When we ran out of things to cover in her wonderful life, she craned her neck to eye my meal for one, crinkling her sun-kissed nose, and asked how things were going for me. I updated her on my new job (no, not what I really want to be doing), my new place (I don't own, I still rent), and my love life (we broke up and he is now married). She listened with her head cocked sympathetically as she made circuits around her gravid stomach. Not knowing what to say as she reached for her husband's hand, she hastily blurted out, "Well, good luck with all that".

I sat back down to single serving fare and became to ponder her words. Good luck with that? Good luck with what? Being a single woman of a certain age, you become used to people asking you, "So when are you going to settle down?" I never know quite how to answer that. Should I be glib and tell them that it is on my to-do list, I just haven't gotten around to it yet? Or should I be honest and tell them of the overwhelming loneliness that I feel when my soul cries for its companion? Neither answer is satisfactory, and I unsure of what answer I could possibly give them that would be. I am so weary of others pointing out the fact to me as if I was oblivious. I am more acutely aware of my singlehood than any other person could be. It stalks me and taints everything I touch. I have never tried so hard at something and been so bad at it. I heard once that getting married is like playing duet; you can sit down at the piano and play but not matter how hard you try, it still takes someone else to sit down next to you and play their part.

I tire of sitting through half-hearted conversations that always end in, "I am sure it will happen for you". What makes you so sure, when I am not even sure? In the less than 1% of the entire world's population that is male, LDS, and worthy, what are the chances that I will find one who wants to be with me for eternity. I have trouble getting men to commit to dinner, let alone sacred rites in the House of the Lord. This must be what childless couples feel when someone bouncing a cherubic child on their knee as they too are told, "I am sure it will happen for you". Perhaps people utter these words because they too recognize the bleakness of that future. They cannot imagine what it would be like to walk this world alone, and the thought of eternity yawning out in front of them sends waves of panic through their chest. What else can they say?

There is a definite division between the marrieds and the single. I have bid entire generation of ward families into couplehood and have yet to see one of them since. It is as if they disappear into the spirit world and those of us left on earth can not longer see or speak to them. One day when you slip into the spirit world, you are going to see all the old friends you thought you had lost, just waiting to induct you into their cult. You will start doing things like going to Pampered Chef parties, singing the praises of the Diaper Genie, and perfecting your condolatory head tilts for all those you left behind in singlehood.

After finishing my sandwich and my pondering, I waved across the room to my former classmate as she left. I am happy for her, and truly do hope that the grass is greener on her side of the fence. I would be lying if I did not say that I wish I was her. But on that night, I sat back down at my tiny table, with my ice cream cone in hand and though, you know I might just have another, for no one will be seeing me naked tonight. Let's hear three cheers for me as I strive to enjoy my singlehood.

Old Post Found...

I was browsing some of my old posts and found this. I thought it was interesting in light of my recent move. Enjoy...

Leaving Las Vegas

Despite Austin being my adopted city, I will always consider Las Vegas, Nevada home. The wonderment and joy associated with going home still awes me. Every time I step unto the plane, and feel the cold radiate from the steel covered hull and the smell of the artificial air, I become overwhelmed with homesickness. Looking out my tiny portal, over the strip of light bouncing off the wing, I can look down unto a miniature world covered with a patched blanket of puffed white clouds. Emerging from my cocoon, I juxapositionally regress to an earlier stage as the dry heat envelopes me. Here I have no responsibilities, no car, no job, and no demands on my time. I am chauffeured around, I don’t have to pay for movies, someone else makes dinner, and I spend my day cuddled under a blanket I can remember from childhood. This is where the trite saying, “it is like coming home” stems from, but it is not possible that two dimensional words can fully describe the three dimensional emotion.

Even though the entire city is so familiar and reminiscent of the younger me, ever year it changes by miniscule amounts. It is a cumulative change that you don’t notice all at once, like the growth of a baby. Every year I am gone, everything ages a year, everything gets a year older. Like flowers saved in a memory box, thing slowly become a shadow of their former selves. Things are different; I am different. I pass along the ever present pastel stucco of the house and over-run rock garden now as an adult. Childhood has been whisked away. Walls that were one covered with gapped smiles and pig tails now holds son-in-laws, grandchildren, and Hawaiian vacations. We are down to one family pet. The fish tank sits fallow and empty in the garage, and two cats buried next to it. Every year my father’s hair fades another shade closer to grey, and his belt has to be let out another notch. Even the sun bleached city itself seems to age along with me. The wood, cement, glass, and paint that make up the metropolis are ever changing like cells, but despite the flux it still matures like any other body. Old and tired, it is still my town, my home, my lover and it glitters as a diamond in the desert when night falls upon it.

Last month my parents finally purchased their retirement home in the thicketed Ozarks. In a couple of years, they will be leaving Las Vegas, and consequently I will have to as well. Although Vegas will still be home, there will no epicenter to return to. I will have no base to recharge at. I will have to stay in hotels, rent a car, and be no different than any other tourist. Someday I would love to move back to my home, but I am unsure if that will ever be feasible. I feel like Vegas is about to pass out of my life forever. No matter how tight I try to hold on, it will soon slip from my grasp. For now, I will just have to enjoy what little time we have together.