I Don't do Kids.

This is a piece that is a bit of two or three previous blogs, parts of journal entries & emails- minus some juicy tid bits. (Yes, this is edited for general consumption.) Getting paid to tell all your secrets is one thing, simply telling them is another. Sorry! I submited it to a contest at Real Simple Magazine titled "Growing Up," but, I didn't win. Sorry if it sounds too familiar. Or offensive, rude, mean, self-righteous, ambivalent or otherwise snarky.

Every four weeks, as Tuesday rolls into Wednesday and the sun rises on Thursday, I convince myself that I’m pregnant. Thursday by 5:00PM I’d be buying myself a stick to pee on, but I haven’t had to yet.

Particularly in the past few months, this has become a source of much anxiety, the terror weighing heavy on my almost thirty-year-old chest. I am married and never miss my pill, but we really don’t want kids. When it comes to sacrificing my selfishness, I don’t gamble. But what if I am in that 2% that happens to get pregnant while on birth control?

Each fourth Tuesday my womb becomes ripe with fetus. My belly hardens and my hips widen. Exhaustion sucks me dry. I search the Internet for full-time jobs and larger apartments within our budget. Drinking four cups of coffee every morning is no longer acceptable behavior and I worry about the mercury levels in the can of tuna I ate on Monday. My life is over.

After all, why wouldn’t I get pregnant now? It seems like half the girls I know are pregnant and fat. Which is something else that I am not looking forward to, gaining all that damn weight. I had two baby showers to attend last weekend alone. And I just finished reading An Exact Replica of a Figment of My Imagination, a terribly sad memoir about a stillborn baby.

I wait. Like some bimbo girlfriend I text my husband, “We’re not pregnant” as soon as it’s obvious that my egg is unfertilized. “Whoo Hoo,” he texts back. Just like that, my panic melts and I pop open a Diet Coke.

Last month my pseudo-pregnancy readily emerged as I opened another buttery yellow envelope: a baby shower invitation. My dear friend Lora, who I left in Texas two years ago when I moved to NYC, is pregnant. Because of the 1,500 miles between us, I resentfully checked the “Will Not Attend” box on the RSVP card. If I were there, I'd be a huge part of the pre-baby preparations. I'd work on a scrapbook, or learn to cross-stitch, or design something worthy of hanging on the wall. I'd wrack my brain for the perfect, sentimental, keepsake-type gift; one that would make her weepy, like tiny crocheted booties.

Amongst the practical gifts: the onesies and bottles and diapers and burp cloths, I would offer the most thoughtful thing I could think of. Practical gifts are not bad; I’m the one who usually gives baby wipes, bibs, and hooded towels, but this is my dearest friend. I would spend hours pouring myself into this tangible reminder of our friendship.

I'd have helped paint the baby room. I’d use a stencil or do a tiny border if she wanted me to, even though she’s a much better painter and I struggle to stay within the lines. She wouldn’t care. I'd hang the Noah's ark window valance and help put all the tiny baby clothes on tiny baby hangers. I'd be hosting the shower, ordering duck-shaped cookies and planning games. Why? Because I'd want to. But I am here and she is there, which left me with little option. So instead, I had to forgo my bikini wax and picked out something boring from her registry at Babies-R-Us. Something called a BabyBjorn.

At 6:00PM one Saturday night Lora texted me; her water broke. Completely restless, I found sleep only after two glasses of red wine but woke abruptly at 2:45AM. Consumed with thoughts of her, I texted a single line saying that I was awake and thinking about her and her unborn baby. To my surprise she responded, “No baby yet.” We wrote back and forth until I told her I had better try to get some sleep and that I loved her dearly.

Lora, my friend since 6th grade, was embarking on something selfless and brave. I lay awake in bed until 4:50AM. I reminisced, prayed, and wrote an entire chapter of a book in my head. When the sun broke through this never-ending night, my friend would be a mom. I wondered: Are we grown up? Are we grownups?

I no longer worry about acne, but spider veins. I make sure all my face lotions and skin serums have SPF so I can avoid the wrinkly neck. I know I should get rid of my plastic, beaded necklaces and the sundress with the pink birdies stitched around the hem. Not that I want to appear matronly, or avoid baring my shoulders, I just think that to be treated maturely, my appearance needs to say, "I am a beautiful, strong, confident woman" not "Hey, I partied hard last night and can't find my underwear."

I recently passed a book display at Barnes and Noble and the girl on the cover of What to Expect When Your Expecting looked much younger than me. Is this what getting older feels like? When your closest friends are buying homes, making partner, and having babies? I don’t do kids; on most days it’s all I can do to keep my bonsai tree alive.

While there is not a baby in my near future, I do feel older. I feel like I need to get my moles examined, not carry so much crap in my massive handbag, and quit wearing headbands. However, control-top underwear will not be folded next to my thongs anytime soon. I am fine living in an apartment the size of my mother’s walk-in closet and eating Lucky Charms for dinner from time-to-time.

Even last summer when I went out dancing with my younger sisters, I felt like the oldest girl in the entire club. After playing Michael Jackson, Jay-Z, and the Beastie Boys the deejay put on something my twenty-eight year old body could not find the beat to. I became a wallflower. I enjoyed the time with my sisters, but quickly realized how I didn't fit into this scene.

But it's hard to avoid the hip, short, tight clothes. I am in the best shape of my life, and all too often get caught up in the appearance thing. Sometimes, I want my hoochie days back.
When people assume I am younger than I am, I often misinterpreted it as a complete insult. Most recently I was asked, "Did you move to the city to go to college?" Do I appear that insecure, immature, or irresponsible?

I desire to project a mature me. Not boring or old or predictable, just confidant. I don't need a $350 handbag to fit in. I don't need the trendy shoe of the season to be accepted. And I sure as heck don't feel comfortable shopping at stores with names like Strawberry, Rainbow, and Forever 21. When I was twenty-one I was a complete wreck. I don’t want to be twenty-one forever. Just because I can fit into low-rise jeans doesn’t mean I should wear them.

Recently, I spent an afternoon shopping with a twenty-one year old friend. She can wear sparkly, pink leggings and turquoise shirtdresses that barely cover her tush. I don't want to. I don't want to wear a t-shirt that says, "Make Smores Not Wars" or "If we are what we eat, I'm fast, cheap and easy." I gave her my oversized peace-sign earrings and seashell necklaces. But I kept my red velvet heels, my pink Coach purse, and my spaghetti-strap dress.

I’m ready to move forward, to run with reckless abandon into my 30’s. But, I am not ready to be a mom, to take care of something so delicate and helpless and 100% reliant on me. The night Lora birthed baby Tessa I wrestled with my youth. And perhaps it's becoming comfortable simply being myself as much as it is growing up. I don’t feel grown-up, or like a grownup but I guess it’s sort of relative. Maybe like so many other things in life, it’s a continual process.