No Love Attached

chapter nineteen : thirty, flirty, & lying

| No Love Attached |
chapter nineteen : thirty, flirty, & lying

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When you're a female over the age of thirty, everything changes. You're no longer the young bunny in her twenties who has all the time in the world. Once you hit the big three zero, thoughts such as, "Why aren't I married yet?", "How long do I have to have kids?", "Am I successful enough?", and worst of all the "Do I have to settle?" all hit you like a blow to the gut. Or should I say, ovaries.

By thirty, most of your friends are either married, engaged, or about to be. Things you avoided like the plague in your twenties are now what you're desperate to do. It starts to be the time that when your friends tell you they're pregnant, it's followed by a "congratulations!", rather than a "Do you need me to drive you to Planned Parenthood?" Suddenly that chubby guy who works on Wall Street, who's been trying to take you to dinner for years is kind of hot. Or that man with the bad cargo pants who held the door open at Rite-Aid is "refreshing" instead of "repulsive" as you described him two years ago.

Now, there are some anomalies for this syndrome. There are the rich cougars; women who can still fuck twenty-two year olds because they have enough money to spoil them and pay for vaginal rejuvenation.

The businesswoman who's happier alone; these women have given up on men and they're fine with it because they know being by themselves is better than shitty company. They're too mature for the young fuck boys available, and all of the desirable men are already taken. Everyone admires them but no one wants to end up like them.

The women already in a long-term relationship; if you're over thirty and already in a long-term thing, chances are you are an exception to what seems to be the rule.

The woman your boyfriend or husband wants to cheat on you with; these women are usually successful, funny, sexy, and someone every man dreams of fucking. You can't hold her attention for long. Too intimidating to marry.

This has been an unspoken fact among females for ages. Not everyone can be Carrie Bradshaw and end up with their Mr. Big in their late thirties or forties. That was why my dear friend, Penney Abrams has been worried sick now that her and Damon Lancaster have ended things, just while her thirtieth birthday was approaching in less than a week.

She claimed her "youth and beauty were fleeting by the minute,". (Not true.)

"My eggs are going bad as we speak!", she ranted. (Could be true, but very exaggerated.)

"Why did I fuck up a done deal? That was it, I was set for life! I found a wonderful man who for some reason wanted to marry me and look what I did! Completely trashed it," she cried. (True.)

It then got me thinking: what category do I fall under?

Many years ago I was one of the lucky few in a wonderful long-term relationship. Since thus tragedy, I feel as though I'm a rough mix of the business woman who's happier alone and the woman your significant other wants. I wasn't exactly ready to be the rich cougar yet.

But what group was the woman who just simply wanted to get laid? Oh, yeah, that's the category mean like to call "desperation".

It was now 7:47pm at the Fitz-Wells Hotel later that night. I applied the finishing touches my mascara with ease. Makeup wand in one hand, wine in the other. It was my first moment of silence all week because Penney finally moved back into her own room. I contemplated cancelling on Aaron at least every minute and a half since I accepted the dinner invite. The thought of sitting alone on the couch with vino and some Nora Ephron movies was borderline orgasmic.