Hitting the Snooze Button on Crazy

I turned 27 on August 9.  Since it wasn’t exactly a milestone year and a Tuesday, I kept the celebration pretty mellow – beer and burgers at Prime 16 in New Haven with a few friends. I even sported a trendy "man-repelling" outfit inspired by one of my favorite fashion bloggers. I wore two belts over a polka-dot dress and neon pink footless “chastity tights” designed to ensure a woman’s virtue remained unchallenged if she just wanted to enjoy a quiet night out with friends. The tights worked like a charm; no guy looked at me twice.

At first I didn’t think turning 27 affected me. But, as I was picking up my afternoon caffeine fix on August 10, I realized there was something distinctly different about me on the inside. My biological clock had just turned on.

It all started while I was waiting for my iced Americano, a guy struck up a conversation and asked for my number.  I was shocked, flattered and high on endorphins after just finishing my first class.  I smiled, spelled out my number for him and flounced away, hoping that my ponytail hadn’t spritzed drops of sweat all over him when I turned around to leave.

I jumped into the Jeep with my trusty sidekick, Huckleberry, and took off towards the for our afternoon walk. I was so excited; I didn’t even need the three shots of cold espresso to perk me up for the hike – I still drank the whole thing, of course. By the time I was turning past , I was imagining what a great father the Starbucks man might be. While I parked and pulled my keys out of the ignition, I wondered if he would want to name our first daughter “Evangeline.” I was on the phone with an old college roommate telling her about the new potential father of my children as Huckleberry and I started walking to the trails.

That’s when I realized I had gone crazy.

Fortunately, I’ve reined the crazy in a bit and won’t be blurting out words like “babies,” “commitment,” or “would you marry me” on the first date (if he even calls).  However, this whole biological clock thing is a force to be reckoned with.

For example, at our last family gathering, Poppie reminded me that I was “wasting all of my baby-making years.”  I looked at my sister bouncing my fat, drooly-faced nephew on her knee and laughed. What could I say?

Everyone stared at their plate for an awkward mini eternity, knowing that I can be a bit touchy about my singlehood.  Finally, my mother rushed to my aid: “With modern medicine, women are having children well into their 40s, you know.”

I got up and poured myself another mimosa.

Truthfully, I love babies. I like the special stink only a baby has. I like playing with their toys. I like the faces they make when they are sleeping and you poke them. I like how their eyes cross when they eat stuff and how they get food all over their faces and in their ears. I like baby clothes. I like baby oil. I even do an okay job tolerating the whole diaper thing. Really, I think babies are fantastic.

But, if I’m going to stand a chance at starting up a normal, healthy relationship, I’m going to need to hit the snooze button on my biological clock and realize I might be 27, but I have some good baby-making years left in the ol' uterus. Just not this year… or next year… or, probably the year after that. Or ever... if I ask to name our first son “Tag” on date number two.

I know my body has a deadline. Unfortunately, my body also knows that it has a deadline. But, I keep reminding myself, some things you just can’t rush. Like feeling grown up enough to have a baby and take good care of it. And feeling ready to teach that baby important things: like how to be a good person, how to be kind and compassionate, how to respect themselves and others, how to be gentle with animals, how to use a toilet, how to talk, how to walk, how to eat things with a fork without losing an eye, how to put the coffee on in the morning so that mommy can hit the snooze button one more time….oh, did I just get ahead of myself again?

It happens.

As for my Starbucks Suitor, well, if he doesn’t read the Branford Patch, I anticipate getting a phone call. Unfortunately, if he stumbles across this column, I doubt I’ll ever hear from him. He’ll probably start frequenting the Starbucks in Mystic.