I knew how to cook, and wait. There had always been a lot of waiting in my life. Waiting to see
doctors, waiting to get old enough to do things my big sister was doing, or old enough to date, old enough to
move away. I figured having a career and a family would happen naturally. I could ignore my mother’s cries to
find a husband already, because I thought I still had time. I couldn’t see the brown edges of my life, until I
heard the crackling. It came with one too many boyfriends who didn’t want to be a boyfriend. It came when
the economy made food coaching a luxury that no one wanted to say they could afford. It came when my
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hormones decided they should slow down, I was going from someone waiting to sprout, to a crone.
Panic sunk in as my cycle changed, and birthdays had numbers I didn’t want to admit too. “You look
incredible for your age,” was a frequent phrase I heard, but it did not change the fact that I would never be a
mother.
It hit me at odd times. I moved to New York and walked in the west village one day where the sound of
a little girl’s voice behind me, and the pug in a blue sweater in front of me who looked up in her direction, sent
me into uncontrollable tears. I developed stroller rage, avoided walking near day care centers, and felt
heartache when a particularly cute infant smiled in my direction. I had lovely friends who told me I was meant
to birth books, not babies, but really I should have heard life passing. I should have been better at creating a
simmer to jump into. It’s a fine line between delicious chewiness and getting burned.
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THE CONE - ISSUE #8 - WINTER 2016