by Angela Terry
I also used to travel a lot with my girlfriends—visiting Iceland to see the northern lights and Peru to climb Machu Picchu. I look over to my bookshelf for the photographic evidence and see a younger version of myself grinning back at me with various foreign backdrops—a Moroccan souk, Big Ben, a beach in Cancun. Over the last five years, I hadn’t been on any big trips. And I wasn’t sure whether I was becoming less adventurous as I got older or because Neil didn’t enjoy traveling. I had wanted to do something exotic for our honeymoon, but instead I compromised with Neil’s request to go to Hawaii, where we’ve been before. His reasoning was that we’d be too tired after the wedding and that we should just relax rather than tromping around all over the globe. Since I figured we would have a lifetime of adventures ahead of us, I acquiesced to Hawaii.
But the biggest compromise I’d made—or maybe this was the fatal flaw—was that Neil wasn’t sure if he wanted children. I was sure. And after a year of dating, I brought up the issue. Though I’d been hoping I wouldn’t have to be the one to bring up The Talk, once I did, Neil assured me that we were on the path to marriage and that he just needed more time to consider the idea of kids. He wanted to have his career in a stable place and be financially ready to support a family. I could respect that. He promised me and my ticking clock that we would get married while there was still time. Now I’m thirty-five. Yes, there’s still time, but not to start over from the beginning.
Where was this book before we broke up? It should be required reading for every woman before they enter into a relationship, not when it has already gone south. I’ve been hating Neil these last couple weeks, but the person I hate now is me.
My phone beeps with a text.
How are you feeling? asks Jordan.
Better. You?
Headache gone, but ready to head home and sleep.
Can I ask you a question?
Was that the question?
Ha-ha. My hands shake a little as I type, Did I lose myself when I started dating Neil?
Nothing happens for a second on my phone. Then I see the little dots to show she is typing, but then nothing else appears. Almost a minute goes by and then my phone rings.
“You really want me to answer that question over a text?” Jordan asks. “And without alcohol?”
“I know. Sorry. I was just taking your advice today and doing some self-reflection. I was thinking back to life pre-Neil vs. with-Neil.”
“I’m only answering because it sounds like you already know the answer.” Jordan sighs. “Yes, I would say you lost a little of yourself. Once you two started dating, it became all about him. In the beginning, that’s normal. But I don’t know. It was like you were always insecure about your relationship.” Ouch! “Although, we now know it was for a good reason. Women’s intuition is for real,” she says, sagely.
“Yeah. I guess I’m just realizing it all now.”
“Don’t beat yourself up. Everything’s twenty-twenty in hindsight, you know?”
“Agreed. I want to get pre-Neil Allison back.”
“Sounds like a plan. The key is to learn from our mistakes and move forward, and I bet post-Neil Allison will be even better.” Jordan yawns. “I think that’s all my wisdom for the day. I need to learn from my mistake of drinking too much and go to bed. Post-hangover Jordan will be much better tomorrow.”
I laugh. “Agreed. Thanks for listening. Get some sleep.”
I hang up with Jordan and then order some dinner. A needless and expensive habit right now, since I have the time to go to the store and make something more unemployed budget friendly. But post-Neil-better-than-ever Allison will have to wait until tomorrow.
After spending ten hours in bed, I head out for a morning run. While I still require an inordinate amount of sleep, today I blame it on Jordan and our shenanigans the other night rather than grief over, well, pretty much everything. While I run along the lakefront, I think about the relationship book. Everything it said was true, and I never want to be in that situation again. I learned more about relationships and myself in one afternoon than in the last thirty-five years of my life, which forces me to admit—maybe there is something to the self-help aisle after all.
It also proved my hopeful theory: I just needed new rules. It’s three weeks away from what would have been my wedding day. So instead of committing to Neil, I’m going to commit to this process. Though it’s scary to be without a job right now, my circumstances aren’t such that I’ll starve or be homeless in the immediate future. I can afford to take these next few weeks to figure out how my life went off the rails, so that hopefully the next several years will be an upward trajectory.
Perhaps my next book should be about my career and address the questions that have been burning up my insides—How did I get so blindsided at work? And what am I going to do about this rumor? If I want another job in public relations, then I need to get to the bottom of that. Of course, that’s the million-dollar question—Do I even want to continue in PR? It wasn’t like I’d been dreaming of doing PR ever since I was a little girl, so much that it was simply the first place to hire me, and I steadily worked my way up by doing my job.
Yesterday I thought about pre-Neil Allison, but what was pre-PR Allison like? That would be college Allison and she was a type A student, and though I wasn’t much of a partier, I could always be counted on to go along for the ride. I slow down my pace. Do I really have no personality? Am I this generic? I watch some other runners in their Lululemon tights and their ponytails swinging like mine. How am I different from them? Who is Allison James?
Clearly, I’m having an existential crisis, and I fight the urge to crumple down on the path and cry, What have I done with my life? I also now know why that cashier was pushing the notebook on me. With my new goal, I decide to finish my five-miler and get my latte at the Barnes & Noble café.
The same cashier from yesterday is at the register. What are the odds? She doesn’t comment on the notebook, but her silent poker face gives me the feeling she knows. She just does. Maybe after figuring out my love life and career, I’ll focus on my fear of people judging me, but not today. Today, I will make a list. Who was Allison before Neil? Who is Allison after Neil? What do I want from my next relationship? The relationship book had a series of questions at the end, and it’s worth answering them. While I’m not ready to date again—not for a long, long time, if ever—I honestly saw myself married with a family by now and need to get to the bottom of this.
And, okay, yes, I know it’s called journaling, but for some reason that sounds so Dear Diary or hippy-dippy. This is simply a research project. Project Turn This Ship Around!
ON MY WAY home, I pass by The Cauldron to see if Eric is working. I walk by slowly and see a cashier and barista, but no Eric. I keep walking and peering in, hoping he’ll come out from the back, but nothing. I turn my attention back to the sidewalk and Oof! run into someone.
“Oh, sorry!” I say, stepping back to regain my balance. “I wasn’t looking where I was going.”
“Are you okay?” I hear Eric’s voice and look up to see him grinning.
“Oh, hey, it’s you!”
“Yes, it is.” His eyes crinkle a little in laughter.
I give a small laugh. “I was walking by to see if you were in.”
“Ah. My first stalker!”
“Please.” I playfully hit him on the shoulder. “I wanted to let you know about the scone.”
“Yay or nay?” He makes a funny face as if he’s waiting for a blow.
“A definite yay. It was a little denser and not as sweet as your mom’s lemon blueberry, but equally delicious in its own way. And did I taste some coconut?”
“You did,” he says, his tone appraising. “I’m experimenting with sweeteners and oils. Coconut seems to be a new super-food, so I’ve been using coconut oil and sugar. Agave and brown rice syrup seemed a little too sweet.”
I haven’t baked in forever, but I nod politely as if I understand what he’s talking abou
t. While I used to enjoy cooking, it was usually something from one of my health magazines, which Neil not-so-affectionately deemed “rabbit food.” Once we moved in together, my cooking days became obsolete since Neil wasn’t a fan of “rabbit food” and when I couldn’t stand one more night of Neil’s takeout, I relied heavily on the Whole Foods salad bar. Whatever. Let Stacey try to keep her figure while he scarfs down takeout pizza and burgers.
Realizing we’ve been standing in silence while I was lost in thought, I finally respond, “Yes, coconut.”
Eric laughs. “I see you zoned out there for a sec. Sorry. I know the topic of brown rice syrup can do that.”
“Not at all! Actually, you’re inspiring me to get back into the kitchen. I haven’t made a proper meal for myself in a while.”
“You should! Gotta keep up your energy with all that running you do.” That’s a fair assessment since I’ve mostly visited the coffeehouse in my workout clothes, and here I am again in my running clothes. “I’ve seen you running along the lakefront,” he adds.
“Oh?”
“Yes. I usually run the stretch from Oak Street Beach to Belmont, and so I actually recognized you before you came in.”
“Really?” His notice makes me stand a little taller, but also take a step back. Guess I do stand out from the other Lululemon-ponytail-swinging thirty-somethings out there after all, if Eric could distinguish me from the rest. “So now who’s stalking who here?”
He shrugs and gives a shy smile. “Coffee?”
With my bookstore latte kicking in and remembering my self-reflection mission and not wanting to journal in public (baby steps), I shake my head. “No, thanks. I just wanted to let you know about the scone, which I just did, but now I better get some work done.”
He nods, keeping eye contact. “Got it. Thanks for the review.”
“Anytime.” I wave goodbye and head home, surprised to feel a bit of a blush coming on. It’s stupid since he probably wasn’t flirting. He thinks I’m engaged after all. Plus, he owns the coffeehouse where I’m a customer, so he needs to be friendly. Suddenly, his coffee with a question mark reveals itself for what it was—wanting to sell me a cup of coffee, not an invitation to have coffee with him. What I thought was flirtation was really only small talk; but the takeaway here is that I’m still attracted to the opposite sex even though one wronged me in the worst way. Perhaps there’s still hope for me yet.
BEFORE I GET down to the business of confronting my existential crisis, I need to confront dealing with my mother. I can’t avoid her forever. After my brief email yesterday, she responded with a million voicemails, texts, and emails, and I really need to let her see me so that hopefully she can stop worrying. My parents offered to come downtown to take me out to dinner, but I said I had plans tonight (they don’t need to know it’s with a journal) and suggested I visit them at the house for lunch, a much quicker meal. Plus, I like the idea of having my getaway car.
Although I’m looking forward to lunch as much as I would a root canal, the car ride will do me good. My parents’ house is about twenty miles outside the city, and after spending most of my time cooped up in my condo, the change in scenery can only be a positive.
When I turn off on the exit at Roosevelt Road, I make my way through the western burbs until I reach their house, an imposing red brick colonial. Still feeling good about my new “rules” plan, I say to myself, I can do this, before opening up my car door and walking up the path to the front door.
I ring the doorbell and my dad opens the door. “Hi, honey,” he says, holding the door open for me.
He’s in his weekend uniform of crewneck sweater, chinos, and Rockports. The sunlight catches his hair, and I notice that it’s grayer than the light brown I remember.
“Hi, Dad.” I step inside and drop my purse on the ornate chest in the entryway.
“I’m sorry about the wedding,” he says, and gives me a hug.
“Thanks. Me too.”
His wool pullover scratches my cheek but feels comforting just the same. After a second, he gives me a pat on my shoulder, conveying that he knows I’ll get through this, and we pull apart. This is the first time I’ve actually talked to my dad since the wedding has been canceled. There is no “I want to punch that guy” or any other outward signs of emotion from him, which is in keeping with his quiet nature. But contrasted with my mom’s constant concern, I’m grateful for his emotional brevity on my situation.
“Your mother is in the kitchen,” he says.
I brace myself thinking I can do this again, and then walk down the hall into the kitchen with my dad behind me.
My mom is at the sink filling a teapot.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Allison, honey.” She turns off the water and sets down the pot. She comes over to give me a hug, though it is still just more of a light touching, a semblance of a hug. “How are you doing?”
I want to say, I’m a mess, Mom. But our previous lunch and her callous advice to get couples counseling make me decide not to open any floodgates yet, and I say, “I’m doing well.”
I’m expecting her to say something about Neil and the wedding, but instead she says, “I was just about to make some tea. Would you like some?”
“Sure. Thanks.”
My dad goes off to pick up lunch from a new salad place nearby, and my mother and I carry our tea to the sunroom where we look out over the backyard. The tulips that I planted as a teenager are all in full bloom. The old trees have all their majestic foliage. There’s a hum of a lawnmower in the distance. Normally I would enjoy this peaceful suburban atmosphere, but my mom’s calm demeanor is too unnerving. When I realize the slight buzzing sound I’m hearing isn’t from insects, but is coming from my head, I blurt out, “So, what did you think of Neil’s email?”
“Rude. So rude.” She shakes her head. “My phone was ringing off the hook, and I didn’t know what to say to people.”
“How about ‘what an asshole?’”
There’s a pause and I’m expecting her to say something like, language. Instead, she reaches over and pats my hand. “It’s okay, honey. You have other options.”
It’s an odd choice of wording, and I nod.
“Have you thought about your next steps?” she asks.
“Well, sure. I mean, now that the wedding’s canceled, I can fully focus on my job search. My resume is with recruiters right now, but I’ve also been thinking that maybe I might want to change careers.”
“Uh-huh. But what about babies, dear? You’re thirty-five and single.”
Here we go. “True, but I’ve only been single a couple weeks and I’m not exactly ready to jump back into the dating pool.”
“Of course. But when you do and when you’re ready to settle down again, you might be thirty-eight or thirty-nine.”
I squirm in my seat. My dad seems to be taking a long time to get lunch.
“Thanks for that reminder.” Way to kick me when I’m down, Mom.
She sets down her tea and looks at me, “Have you thought more about freezing your eggs?”
Ah-ha! I knew something was brewing in her mind. The details of our lunch at Restoration Hardware are coming back to me. She wanted me to work it out with Neil, not because she thought we were meant to be a couple, but because she was willing to sacrifice my happiness for her getting grandchildren.
“Not recently,” I say tightly. Why would I? I was on schedule to start trying during my honeymoon.
“You should be thinking about it now. I’ve been reading about this and age is not on your side here. At thirty-two your egg count starts to decline. Then at thirty-five, it goes down even more. At thirty-seven it decreases again. And the longer you wait, the fewer eggs you have.”
While I’m well aware of this, the timing of this conversation is insensitive on so many levels. “It’s also really expensive, and I’m currently unemployed,” I say. “So thank you for your concern, but I need to table this issue at the moment.”
She sits
up straighter and leans forward, her eyes sparkling. “If it’s the expense that’s stopping you, then don’t worry about that. Your father and I would pay. You wouldn’t let us contribute to the wedding, so let us do this.”
I feel the hairs on my arms stand up. Oh my god! My parents sit around talking about my fertility? Did my dad agree to this?
Before I can form a response, I hear the sound of the garage door opening and my mom hurriedly reaches over and pats my hand again. “I won’t say anymore. Just think about it, okay?” she says.
“Lunch has arrived,” my dad calls out from the kitchen.
WHILE WE EAT, we talk about the neighbors, goings-on at their golf club, my mom’s ideas about renovating their master bath. I can barely participate in conversation because my head is still spinning from my mom’s suggestion. I wouldn’t let her pay for anything for the wedding because she’d have too much say; and so I can’t even imagine what sort of ownership she’d feel over my harvested eggs. Though it’s a generous offer, I have the feeling it would come with an even higher price.
When my mom not-so-casually mentions that one of her friend’s sons is recently divorced and living in the city, and wouldn’t it be nice if we met up, my dad stops her, saying, “Theresa, give the girl a break.” His coming to my defense makes me think he’s not privy to my mom’s egg scheming ways.
When I leave the house, my mom stuffs pamphlets from a fertility clinic into my purse. “Here. You should read these.” Geez. Did she see Neil’s email and then immediately run out to get these?
