Category : Stories

Sub Category : Comedy

I was listening to this webinar the other day to a woman who was sharing how she woke up at the age of 43 and realized she forgot to get married. I mean she literally said it was something she forgot to do like turning off the oven or something. As a single woman if 42, I cannot relate. Truly, I cannot relate to this claim of forgetting because the truth is no one has ever let me forget that I don't have kids. It is a constant reminder and part of my identity as I attend work lunches, parties, and in general when I meet strangers. People almost always ask, "Do you have kids?" In the past, I would answer, "No, but I'd love to one day." Now I am unsure how to answer because the truth is I don't know if I can anymore. 

People love to be optimistic and say I'll get married and have kids as many women now in their forties are currently doing, but I know there are just as many stories of those who cannot. I almost wish I was a woman who didn't want kids. That makes the most sense and seems to be the most socially acceptable answer for people. It is not, however, the truth for me. I would have loved to have kids, a husband, a house, dog, and a cat. That picture still appeals to me even though I know there are more options than ever before for single women. It's interesting to me because I actually didn't want to have kids in my early to mid-twenties because I knew I wasn't ready for that level of commitment. That's probably why I didn't get married either. 

When I was attempting online dating, I had many men ask me why haven't I ever been married. I never knew how to answer other than honestly I never met anyone I wanted to marry. That, on the other hand, is a totally unacceptable answer to most people. Here comes the blame, oh you must be too picky or the most common is that I am a crazy woman. Apparently most of the single men I met were with former partners who are now deemed crazy. It's a term I am unsure of the context in relationship to a woman. I know many unmarried women, none of whom I'd call crazy. I would use the terms hurt or jaded or guarded. 

If I were a man, I doubt anyone would ask me that. I am sure men are asked that question, but maybe they don't take it personally or see it as a failure of their manhood. I mean men can have children much longer than women can so I guess that's why they don't seem so upset by the question. I try not to be, but honestly I am just tired of it. 

I was at a meeting at work when one of my colleagues announced to a new co-worker that we all have kids so our schedule accommodates for anything kid related. I just sat there and didn't say anything. I often dread our team lunches listening to everyone talk about their kids and having nothing to offer. I smile and nod, but honestly it hurts a little. I feel left out or disconnected even more than I already do. 

I was a late bloomer. I didn't really like boys until middle school. I always thought they were kind of stupid. I couldn't really understand them and still don't understand men. To make matters worse, I had an elderly immigrant father from India who according to my therapist was emotionally unavailable and died the month of my eighteenth birthday. My father was ironically 42 which is my current age, when I was born. He already had one child and a few weeks after I was born came home one day and announced to my mother that he'd had a vasectomy since he was getting too old to have kids. He was quiet and uninvolved I our day to day lives leaving the parenting to my mother. His main interaction with us was asking how school was and making a mess in the kitchen cooking dinner. 

Since he didn't talk much, I had no idea he was Indian and thought we were Native American. When I would tell people I was Indian they would inevitably ask what tribe are you from? Since I didn't know, I would often make one up picking Comanche or Pawnee some of the fiercest tribes I could think of. It didn't help when I asked my dad where he kept his feathers and he replied deadpan that they were kept in a safe deposit box at the bank. Whenever we went to the bank, I would ask if we could get his feathers out and he would just say not this time. 

I wonder now as an adult what my father was thinking. I mean how could he not just sit down and have a conversation with me about it, but then what could I have expected him to say? He was born in British India and of low caste so came to the US via Canada as it was as it is now still easier to become a Canadian citizen. He blended in and already spoke English much to people's surprise. He would always say it was British India so what did people think he would speak? What else do British people speak besides English? Sadly he didn't have the distinguished accent, but neither did he have a strong Indian accent. He cooked Indian food when people would come over for lunch after church on the weekend. I have to laugh because most of the time he made pasta and Chinese food at home during the week. Our regular Saturday lunch was spaghetti with Prego canned tomato sauce and garlic bread with salad. It is sadly what I remember he made the most. 

My sister remembers every recipe and dish my dad made. She will often ask don't you remember dad making this? No, I reply. I then ask her don't you remember dad saying this? No, she doesn't she says. I have to remember that this is also the same sister who told me I was adopted as a child, but she doesn't remember that either. Her memory is food based and this makes sense as she owns a restaurant in Oakland. They serve Italian food, but not spaghetti with canned Prego tomato sauce.