February 2007 

 

What does one do when engaged in a race with time? For the sake of not falling behind, how fast do I run to meet the deadline?  And in case you have no clue what the dilemma is allow me to clarify and open you eyes to my reality.  You see 25 is the cut off point. If it doesn’t happen by then I am liable to develop some form of eating disorder to help me cope with the multiple levels of trauma I am bound to experience.  Also since I won’t be able to deal with mom’s painfully accurate and heart wrenching remarks or friends condescending support, I’ll have to get a shrink, make weekly appointments, lie down on a couch facing the window and hear him explain that it all originated when I was 2.  I’ll leave his office with at dent in my account, more confused then before only to go home to my 7 cats randomly adopted over the years, with whom I’ll have long conversations about how ok I am.

But let me come back to the present where the scenario is as such.  In an era where:

-Knocked-up teenagers grow up overnight to become single mothers yet end up raising men.

 

-Females proclaim independence everyday, trading in their aprons for suits and their kitchens for conference rooms, mixing up not Caesar salads but marketing strategies to sustain million dollar companies.

In a time when:

 

-Women manage to build mountains after crying rivers simply because the words ‘giving’ and ‘up’ put together, to them, just doesn’t make sense.

In these present days:

 

-Of dealing with men who truly believe that a hard dick and minimum wage along with free outbursts of ‘baby I love you” should be enough for a woman.  Men who when told differently by their now ex-girlfriend go on and stamp them with the oh so popular gold digger/materialistic label never minding the fact that she perhaps just got tired of lending his tired behind gas money just to hear him complain about how the system is holding him down; While she silently carries on her back a burden that Atlas himself would not be able to support.

Well in such an era, I, a renaissance woman, have been damaged beyond repair.  You see, mom’s words left a stain “Selman pa kite’m we ou pa marye, on gen 1 an pou’ou jwen you moun, pa gen peson ki pwal fe vyel fin an kays sa a”. Translation: “You better find someone within a year, husband don’t fall on middle aged women’s laps you know”.  Knowing better I of course waive her comments away but still somehow find myself mentally putting numbers together.

So, let’s say it takes about 6 months to meet someone remotely appealing.  After meeting him and making sure the interest is mutual, we’ll need to add another 3 months (required dating time – period during which you find out weather or not he is really employed, before agreeing to become exclusive).  Then allocate a solid 8 months to be boyfriend and girlfriend.  During which time you will literally have to bend over backwards, be the tantalizing vixen, the Kama sutra guru, the perfect chef, the sweet-hearted care taker, knowing just when the game is on, so as to have the beer out and know when to got down on him so as to without words let him know you got this.  All that with one goal in mind: make him fall in love with you (since you have already decided back in the fourth month that you two will have two kids and the honey moon will be in Greek Islands).

Now because getting a guy to propose, relinquish his cherished freedom, and annihilate all hopes of ever sleeping with another female, is a complicated task, factor in another 30 days of emotional work; making it a full 9 months before he gets on one knee and finally pops the question.  After celebrating the long awaited moment with lots of tears, hugs and a silent sigh of relief, you’ll need to spend 1 extra year as an engaged couple, giving you ample time to move in, discover and build immunity to his habits, things like if he chews his toe nails in the morning, all the while preparing for the wedding and, (bonus) getting to begin every sentence with ‘my fiancé and I”.

So let’s tabulate: 6 months + 8 months + 1 month + 1 year = 2 years and 3 months.  And since I am now 24, according to the time line I should have found the One by now and be in the middle of the blissful dating zone, meaning that technically I am behind schedule…Ladies I know we are treats and eventually men with a sweet tooth will come our way, but 20 something years of conditioning still has me thinking that when left out on the shelf for too long sweets go stale.  In the back of my head a clock is ticking.  What a shame…