After a weekend filled with too-much-stress-about-work-due-on-Monday-that-should-have-been-done-weeks-ago, I wanted a couple of hours of mindless retail therapy.
So I went out shopping, totally prepared to sacrifice as many dollars as needed to obtain something fun to wear. And while looking through shops filled with impractical (and therefore most desirable) clothes for me, I encountered some absolutely adorable baby clothes. And forgetting that the objective of the exercise was to make ME feel better, I spent the next interminably long length of time looking through them with the kind of abject fascination that those-young-enough-to-play-with-dolls may identify with. And then I realized that, right then, at that moment I wanted a child to dress up, to hold, to play with, to love.
And now I'm terrified all over again.
What happened to the me I knew? The me who wanted to conquer the world, one glamorous job at a time?
Growing up is dismal. And it wasn't supposed to be. Growing up was supposed to be a gradual process (like it's always been) not this earth-shattering series of un-welcome epiphanies. First I deal with the realization that I'm 'ready' (as much as anyone ever really is) to get married. Then begins the inevitable husband-hunt where I realize I'm not truly opposed to the 'arranged' alternative. Maybe it's smarter to let someone else choose for me, for my own choices have left much to be desired. And I reconcile myself to the possibility that there may be no grand romance in my forever, and although disappointed, I''ll take it like a (wo)man.
Then I realize I want a child. And today I'm more upset because this sort of desire I don't know what to do with. In my world it takes two to make a child. And I'm alone. And, despite my full, full life, I'm lonely.