164. What are you waiting for?
My dear mother said to me on my thirty-fourth birthday: “You don’t find yourself a man, you’re going to wind up a spinster.”
Naturally, I told my mother to shut the hell up. In a much nicer way, of course--- even though I and my two brothers are adults, our mother still has this way of terrifying us Cuddys with a single look that’s sharp enough to penetrate iron. But I told her to shut up because I didn’t believe that what she said would be true. I was thirty-five, still young, definitely still young enough to meet somebody and get married, and have kids. So, what was I worried about?
But I’m past the age of forty now. I’m forty-four in May. And I’m still unmarried. Without kids. I’m exactly the same as I was ten years ago when my mother told me I was at risk of ending up a spinster and me not believing her, except ten years on I’m much less satisfied with life. I have a gut-wrenching fear that my mother is right. Ten years ago I could’ve cared less. And ten years on it’s now staring me blindingly in the face.
I don’t know why I fail so much at relationships. I really don’t. Sure, my job takes up a great deal of my time. But I’m a successful, relatively attractive woman that somehow manages to attract all the male rejects of the human race. I’ve dated guys of all sorts, ranging from those still living at home with their mother to those sporting a toupee and a beer gut, and every single one of them has turned out to be an absolute lech.
And my biological clock is closing in on finishing time. I know there are a lot of women these days who have children my age, but those women are generally married. Or, at least, in a relationship of some kind. But even if I met a guy who could give me what I really want, forty-four and beyond is getting to the point where the chances of falling pregnant drop dramatically. I’ve tried IVF, three times, and every time has failed. And god knows how much I’ve thought about adoption--- I’m not a suitable candidate for adoption, however. Not married, see. And the waiting lists are so long I’ll be pushing fifty by the time I even bear a chance of signing any adoption papers. I don't want to be a mother old enough to be a grandmother, for crying out loud.
Even if I did become a mother, I’m not even sure I’m really cut out to be one. I don’t seem to have the instincts that every other woman has. For that reason, I can’t help but think that perhaps House was right, no matter how much of an asshole he was about it--- that it was just as well I didn’t become a mom because I’d suck at it. The problem with House is, he’s an ass beyond incomprehensible means when he wants to be, but he’s usually always right.
So, that leaves me with the question: what am I waiting for? I guess I’m still waiting for Mr. Right. But I’m not banking on it--- my approach towards dating these days is, it’s a casual affair. It’s for fun, because I’ve given up hoping anything will come of it other than casual sex and a few romantic dinners before it starts going sour with the guy eventually showing his true colors.
Lisa Cuddy, the spinster. Jesus, that has a horrible ring to it.
Lisa Cuddy; House MD; 633 words.
Naturally, I told my mother to shut the hell up. In a much nicer way, of course--- even though I and my two brothers are adults, our mother still has this way of terrifying us Cuddys with a single look that’s sharp enough to penetrate iron. But I told her to shut up because I didn’t believe that what she said would be true. I was thirty-five, still young, definitely still young enough to meet somebody and get married, and have kids. So, what was I worried about?
But I’m past the age of forty now. I’m forty-four in May. And I’m still unmarried. Without kids. I’m exactly the same as I was ten years ago when my mother told me I was at risk of ending up a spinster and me not believing her, except ten years on I’m much less satisfied with life. I have a gut-wrenching fear that my mother is right. Ten years ago I could’ve cared less. And ten years on it’s now staring me blindingly in the face.
I don’t know why I fail so much at relationships. I really don’t. Sure, my job takes up a great deal of my time. But I’m a successful, relatively attractive woman that somehow manages to attract all the male rejects of the human race. I’ve dated guys of all sorts, ranging from those still living at home with their mother to those sporting a toupee and a beer gut, and every single one of them has turned out to be an absolute lech.
And my biological clock is closing in on finishing time. I know there are a lot of women these days who have children my age, but those women are generally married. Or, at least, in a relationship of some kind. But even if I met a guy who could give me what I really want, forty-four and beyond is getting to the point where the chances of falling pregnant drop dramatically. I’ve tried IVF, three times, and every time has failed. And god knows how much I’ve thought about adoption--- I’m not a suitable candidate for adoption, however. Not married, see. And the waiting lists are so long I’ll be pushing fifty by the time I even bear a chance of signing any adoption papers. I don't want to be a mother old enough to be a grandmother, for crying out loud.
Even if I did become a mother, I’m not even sure I’m really cut out to be one. I don’t seem to have the instincts that every other woman has. For that reason, I can’t help but think that perhaps House was right, no matter how much of an asshole he was about it--- that it was just as well I didn’t become a mom because I’d suck at it. The problem with House is, he’s an ass beyond incomprehensible means when he wants to be, but he’s usually always right.
So, that leaves me with the question: what am I waiting for? I guess I’m still waiting for Mr. Right. But I’m not banking on it--- my approach towards dating these days is, it’s a casual affair. It’s for fun, because I’ve given up hoping anything will come of it other than casual sex and a few romantic dinners before it starts going sour with the guy eventually showing his true colors.
Lisa Cuddy, the spinster. Jesus, that has a horrible ring to it.
Lisa Cuddy; House MD; 633 words.