"the stresses of this world/you know how they come down on a girl/i'm tryna clear my mind/but all i seem to find/is this gangsta/gangsta type-a need..."--Jill Scott
Several weeks ago, I had a dream, one of the most vivid dreams I've had in ages. In it, I was holding my daughter. She was an infant, and looked completely different from how I always envisioned a daughter of mine. The child I held in my dream, a cream-colored newborn with a cap of straight, light-brown hair, slept soundly on my chest after being fed. In my dream, I could feel her warm breath on the skin outside my heart, and I could not stop kissing her. I fought waking up for over an hour, and once my body did betray me and open its eyes, I fell back asleep as quickly as possible so as to see her again. It was pure bliss. This story of course, betrays two truths: I've never really seen myself with a daughter, as I've always wanted boys, and I've never actually felt my biological clock. I guess now I can scratch both of those things off the list of my personal truths. This would probably all be a moot point if I hadn't held a beautiful baby girl in church on Sunday that I seriously considered bolting for the door with, and would probably be far more obsolete if yet another past lover hadn't popped up with a major life change. Context clues have probably given away what I'm about to announce. I wonder if my blog feels like God sometimes feels about his children--ignored until there's a problem. I find myself coming to my blog when there's nowhere else to go. Perhaps that's sad. In fact, it's quite sad. But, it's the truth, my Truth, and I have to own it. Not that there's really a "problem". That is, if you don't count someone I once considered a future husband popping up with a baby. Now, there's no reason other than delusion and dickmatization that even had me considering homeboy as a future husband. Clearly, nearly two years after cessation of all sexual activity and three years after meeting, we are not married. Not only are we not married, but we aren't even really friends. Not only are we not really friends, but I now struggle to like him as a person. Not only do I struggle to like him as a person, but I had zero idea that he was even expecting a child until yesterday when the kid was delivered. Of course, I found out via a social networking site, which is simultaneously contemporary and sad. Although I haven't really unpacked the feelings about this strange evolution, I can say it comes at an odd time, a time when I'm questioning the direction of my life; a direction which includes no significant relationship nor any prospects, no children or any on the horizon, a floundering career, a crossroads, and two years working in the fertility industry where I was constantly confronted with late bloomers whose regrettable prioritization ended up costing them hundreds of thousands of dollars and a truckload of pain, struggle, and heartbreak. I've had four significant romantic relationships in my life, each significant for different reasons, but all significant nonetheless. Of those four men, one had a small child when we were involved and is now married, the next is married with a child, Mr. Wonderful referenced above now has a child, and the last, my greatest, truest love actually remains an ignorance-is-bliss mystery since I've had nothing to do with him in two years. And while I don't really have regrets, it's only human nature to wonder if you've made enough right moves and choices not to preternaturally screw up your life. How is it that I've not yet had a relationship work out in well over two and half decades of life? How is it that, at a time when women's fertility is declining at a rate faster than ever in history, I have not one iota of an idea when I'll be prepared to reproduce? Am I gearing up to be adopt an African baby and spend his formative years surfing PlentyofFish.com for a husband and father? Of course, I haven't had sex since Bush was in office (30 months and counting), something I'm proud of since it was a personal and spiritual decision that I've stood by, but don't think that doesn't exacerbate this emotional conundrum. Spending most nights with a pillow between my legs and bathing the last man that spent a few nights over in my own precum isn't my idea of a great time. Sure, I stand by my choices in life regarding my sex life--again, hard as crap--but of course I see everyone else moving onward and upward when I can't even get my astoundingly frustrated rocks off with a little penetration and yeah, I'm a little bitter. Of course, I was a little bitter when I was tossing it up like it was my day job, too. Maybe I'm just bitter in general, who knows? And perhaps I sound ridiculous. Well, just know that I can't help it. I am ridiculous. I am a ridiculous woman--always have been and always will be. Not simple or ignorant, but ridiculous still. To be sure, it is ridiculous to feel jealously watching men you've had long-term casual sex with beginning their real lives and moving beyond their silly liaisons and whoremongering. Perhaps it's less ridiculous when you were in love with them, but then again, everything happens for a reason. And maybe ,when that last big love pops up with a wife, kid, or both, the emotion I'll experience will be relief, relief that the suspense is over, relief that I can finally release the bits of that love I'm still holding. Right?