“Step, kick, kick, leap, kick, touch...Again!”

Last Sunday (06/23/19) I did something I swore up and down I was finished doing for the rest of my life: I was in a dance recital.

Yeah. I know.

Three hours on a Sunday spent in a classroom behind a high school theatre stage waiting for three minutes of actual performance time. More flowers than a funeral parlor. Glitter everywhere. Twelve gazillion small humans in tutus and floofy bows. A whole bunch of stressed out dance teachers. I think the phrase ‘barely controlled chaos’ probably covers it.

The last time I experienced this much downtime backstage at this kind of event, I was nine years old. I had forgotten just how much waiting you do when you are a) small, or b) not a company/dance team/multi-class member. The kiddiewinks had snacks and a movie and coloring books and puzzles and storybooks to entertain them, and plenty of grownups to wrangle them when it was time for their three minutes on stage. The middle-age kids were corralled elsewhere, and the oldest ones were camped out next to the stage with quick access to all their accoutrements, and were self-policing. The four of us adult students were told, “Do whatever, you’re adults,” but instead of hanging out on the theatre loading dock passing around a flask and chain smoking and generally looking like the badasses we are*, we opted for the classroom with the littles.

It was air conditioned.

Apart from our instructor (who is young enough that any of us could be her mother) I am the only childless person in my class. Children seem to have a sort of sixth sense about which adults will be best able to assist them with whatever it is that they feel they need at the time. We had been in the room all of three minutes before one of our cohort (let’s call her M.) began to be assailed from all sides with “Can you please open this for me?” and “Can you please tie this for me?” and “I need the potty!” and in one instance, a detailed account of how she was going to be on stage and that the little girl following her around was her cousin and not her sister though everyone always thought she was her sister and that after the show they were all going out to dinner and… You get the idea. M. claimed that this was because she has a ‘Nana face’ and kids just respond to that. I can’t fault her logic. If I were small, in the absence of my mother, my teacher, and the lady from the studio front office, M. would be the one I’d go to if I couldn’t get the straw in my juice box.

The fact that M. was beset with kiddos started me and another of the ladies (we’ll call her L.) talking about the ability of children to gravitate to the most appropriate adult. L.’s daughter was in the second show of the day and was out watching ours with Dad, Little Brother, and Grandma, so L. was off the hook for kid wrangling for a bit...or so she thought.

“We have a quick-change! Can somebody help?”

And off went L. to get a kiddo out of her sock-hop outfit and into her cowgirl outfit.

After that little interlude, I was standing with L. discussing the fact that none of the children had come to me for anything--a fact I chalked up to my Resting Bitch Face and general unapproachable vibe. (It isn’t intentional, it’s just my face!) I was saying it was unlikely that any of the kiddiewinks would come near me because there were plenty of grownups around who looked far more sympathetic, and that I would absolutely be bypassed in favor of all of them. Famous last words.

“Um, I have to go potty.”

“Me, too.”

Well, all right then.

And that, friends, is how I ended up tip-toeing downstairs with two five-year-olds holding my hands on a quest for the potty. When we got there I asked if either of them needed help with their costumes, having previously heard from some other backstage grownups about the struggle of getting kids into (and out of) these same outfits. One announced that she could do it herself, but her buddy, after trying on her own, requested some assistance. The thing about a lot of little girl dance costumes is that they have these high necks with snaps at the back in a sort of halter/keyhole situation rather than easy-on, easy-off straps that would be, you know, sensible. (Dance costume makers, get your shit together. It’s hard being small and trying to deal with complicated clothing!) Anyway, there I am in a theatre basement bathroom helping a five-year-old who not only isn’t mine, but who I’ve never met before in my life, strip off her top half in order to get her to a point where she can take care of the rest so that she can pee.

AWKWARD.

Necessary, but awkward. Thankfully both of my charges managed to wriggle back into their togs without assistance, so all I had left to do was hold the push-activated water faucet down so they could wash their hands and get them back upstairs so they could watch the rest of Despicable Me.

I was infinitely grateful I only had to take one pair.

In any case, we fabulous grownups finally got our three minutes on stage (second to last, of course), and apart from a sub-par floor, we got through our party piece without any major mishaps. I say ‘major’--I flubbed a couple of times because I was sliding around, but it isn’t really noticeable in the video, so hooray for small miracles?

I’m in no rush to do this again.



*None of us actually smoke, and we’re far too sensible to bring alcohol to something like this. We sent back our Badass Club Member cards years ago.

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Let’s talk about descendants. Progeny. Offspring. Issue.

Children.

I think children are incredible. They have so much life in them. They’re joyful, innocent, and accepting. They can be wise far beyond their years. They’re fun to hang out with (most of the time) and, having had the experience of teaching them, I know that they can absorb so much more than they get credit for. They’re champion snugglers and fantastic practical joke partners.

And I don’t want any.

I am in the prime of my childbearing years. I have answered countless variations of the “When are you going to have kids?” question. Admittedly, my answer has changed over time, but the further along I get into territory of “if you wait too much longer everything will be terrible,” the more adamant I become in my decision to abstain from claiming membership in the oldest club in the world, for so many reasons.

I currently do not have a partner with whom I could conceive or adopt a child. I realize that not having a partner isn’t actually a deal-breaker on the kid front, but I am in no way prepared for the challenges faced by single parents (who are incredible, by the way). I have always known that parenthood was not an undertaking I would wish to tackle solo, therefore child-sans-partner was never an option.

I am not in a place financially where I could support another human being. While I live comfortably on my own, there is no room in the current budget for the needs of an infant. And don’t even get me started on the cost of child care! There’s also no room in my condo for a second person (trust me, I tried), so unless I win the lottery or purposefully marry money, I simply can’t afford it. Hell, even on two incomes I know people who just manage to squeak by.

I am not the best adult. I have trouble managing to take care of myself sometimes--at least beyond the very basics. Rinsing the dishes, stacking them in the sink, shrugging, and saying, “I’ll do ‘em when I do ‘em” isn’t the mark of a stellar role model.

And while we’re on the subject of role models, I’m pretty considerably messed up in the noggin when it comes to that whole ‘feelings and emotions’ thing. If I have this much trouble with it myself, how am I supposed to raise a well-rounded human being who doesn’t have as many walls and hangups and nigh-impenetrable defenses as I do? We want our children to be healthy and happy, and I’m just now beginning to figure out how to access a big portion of how those things come to be in a person’s life. I’m significantly behind the curve on this one, and that’s a marked disadvantage to any offspring I could potentially produce.

Also, I just don’t think I’d be good at it. I’m impatient and temperamental and particular and inclined to be introverted. Interacting with kids while babysitting or in a classroom or summer camp setting is a completely different beast than the 24/7/365 of parenthood. I have recently taken to describing myself as a member of the children’s library: I borrow them, enjoy them, and return them. That way I have the ability to give them back and get away before I come unglued. You can’t get away from them when they’re your own--it doesn’t work that way.

Have you looked at the world recently? It’s an unmitigated garbage fire. What kind of a life will our children have, growing up and coming of age in this rampant fuckery? Will grandchildren even be a possibility, or will we have annihilated the entire human race by then?

My personal health would be compromised by a pregnancy. I would have to come off of several medications that allow me to live my life without constant anxiety and the black spectre of despair hanging over me. Un-medicated me is a handful, and I would be willing to bet that pregnant, un-medicated me would be a complete and total basket case. I can’t help but feel that not only would that be bad for me, it would have a negative effect on the child I was carrying. A different negative effect than it growing a third arm from prescription drug poisoning, obviously, but stress ain’t good for nobody.

The U.S. has one of the highest maternal mortality rates in the developed world. Let that sink in for a minute.

These are my practical reasons. Plenty of people have said, “You’ll change your mind.” No, I don’t think I will, but thanks for telling me that you don’t believe I know my own mind. “But it’s so rewarding!” So is helping out at the rat rescue, and going to dance class, and reviewing comics in my spare time. I would rather do those things than chase a toddler around. I don’t need a child to validate my existence. I am a person. Having a child would not make me any more of a person. Not having one does not make me any less of a person.

You all get down with your bad, baby-having selves if that’s what rings your chimes. For my part, I’m going to say “Thanks, but no thanks.”

Uphill both ways, in the snow...

Do you ever look at your parents and think, You’re SO OLD. Except you’re not. Except you are. I’M REALLY CONFUSED RIGHT NOW!

I feel like I do this a lot. My parents were slightly older than average baby-having age for the time when I came along--my mother was 34 and my dad was 40. They were obviously always senior to the majority of my peers’ parents which made them feel extra old to me growing up. Now, though, I look at them and their peers and think, You know, you two don’t look as old as you are next to everyone else.

Case in point, my father was in a fraternity during his college years. There is a span of years from which the members have kept in touch and, what’s more, continued to get together regularly. I would guess that the core of this group are between their mid-sixties and mid-seventies, but there are some outliers down into their fifties and upwards of eighty who still show up from time to time. At this point, the annual stag weekend consists of a bunch of old codgers drinking far too much Scotch and wreaking havoc on golf courses and, let’s be honest, that’s a pretty hilarious mental image. But in my head, my dad isn’t as old as the rest of them.

Except he is.

It’s really weird!

I think it must have something to do with proximity, for lack of a better term. I know my parents. To a greater or lesser degree, I have a handle on the current state of their health. (I mean, there was that one time when my dad had an angiogram and they put in a couple [more] stents, and nobody bothered to tell me for three weeks and then I got it secondhand from my aunt, but never mind.) I know what their daily life looks like. I see them regularly enough not to notice any gradual changes to their appearance. And, in the grand tradition of getting to hear all about everyone’s aches and pains and life-threatening diseases, or the ‘Doom & Gloom Report’ as it’s affectionately known in my family, there thankfully isn’t really much to know about ongoing medical hooplah. On the other hand, when I get secondhand gossip about someone’s hip replacement or how one of ‘the boys’ is now completely dementia-riddled, or that another guy died, all I can think is Wow. You sure know a lot of old people. And you should. You’re an old person. Except you can’t be, because you have both your hips, most of your wits, and, well, your life. It’s a strange phenomenon, and I doubt I’m the only person who experiences it. I suppose to a different degree I experienced it with my grandparents as well. Obviously they were always really old as far as I was concerned, but they never seemed to be the same kind of old as other people I encountered of the same age. There’s another facet to this as well, which has just occurred to me. My mother and the older of my two aunts are approximately four months different in age, my mother being the older of the two. I have always perceived my mother (Sorry, Mom!) as being drastically older than my aunt, even though in the grand scheme of things four months is hardly a difference. I also don’t perceive any of my aunts or uncles to be the ages they are by comparison to the world at large.

It must stem from familial proximity, I suppose. I can’t seem to rationalize it any other way. Then again, it could just be plain old familiarity. I haven’t noticed the passage of time the same way with my closest friends whom I’ve known for ages as I have with, say, the people who showed up to our tenth high school reunion ::COUGH:: years ago. (That was kind of hilarious, actually. All the boys we all thought were hot shit in high school showed up fat and bald. Who’d-a thunk it?) Obviously none of us are three- or eight- or just-born-years-old anymore, but somehow the changes didn’t feel that drastic, and now we’re adults, and still find ourselves occasionally looking for an ‘adultier adult’.

I wonder what it looks like to other people. What do *I* look like to other people in relation to my actual age? I’ll bet it’s different to my family than it is to my friends than it is to someone I have a chat with in the line at the grocery store. How old do I look to a four-year-old? I bet I look ancient!

It’s different from the inside, too. Sometimes I feel pretty damned old. Sometimes I feel like I hit age ten and my body kept going but nothing else about me did.

The passage of time is a strange beast.

Now, get off my lawn!

Why bother?

If you’ve never had to come up with things to put in a dating profile, I envy you immensely.

If you have, then you feel my pain. Probably acutely, unless you’re one of those people who can talk about themselves without succumbing immediately to a fit of Imposter Syndrome so violent it could fell an elephant at 100 yards.

Let’s just say that I’m an imaginary trophy hunter on this one, okay? Okay.

Dating is just interviewing for a job, really. I am not the first, nor will I be the last, to draw this conclusion. You want to make yourself presentable, likeable, and knowledgeable of the subject matter, though in this case it’s less C++ and Python and more emotional health and wellbeing, mutual interests, and the ability to get rid of spiders. (I can get rid of my own spiders, BTW, but apparently this is pretty high up on a decent portion of the female population’s Want-In-A-Partner list...or at least the male contingent seems to think so.) In any case, one always has to read a dating profile with a pinch of salt, because it’s likely that certain attributes that the person in question is claiming to possess aren’t quite as stellar as they would have you believe.

No, I’m not saying that people flat-out lie as a matter of course. Some do, sure, but most people just play up certain things about themselves in order to be a little more appealing to their desired type of partner. It’s not necessarily a bad thing in small doses.

Of course, then there’s me.

Now, I need you to understand that I’m not my own biggest fan for various and sundry reasons, and there is nothing like trying to meet people (for any reason, be it social or romantic) that makes me want to move out of my own head and into the nearest available coma. I’ve had a lifetime of practice for downplaying my accomplishments, demurring in the face of compliments, and self deprecating like a fucking champ. I am aware that these are not technically good life skills, and I am painfully aware that they make describing myself in any capacity nigh on impossible. (My therapist will corroborate this fact. Her: “How would you describe yourself?” Me: ::stares blankly:: Her: “Okay, how would other people describe you?” Me: “Um… … …?” Her: ::headdesk::) It is especially difficult to come up with things to say about myself to perfect strangers that don’t make me (to my own completely skewed ears) sound cocky, full of myself, or just plain assholeish.

I can’t even commit to, “Some people think I’m funny, I guess?”

Nope, can’t do it. Because I’m probably wrong. You all just sort of tolerate me, right? I’m that rando who isn’t exactly awful, but isn’t exactly great either. Fine, but only in a crowd. Definitely not your first draft pick. “Nobody likes me, everybody hates me, I guess I’ll go eat worms, except then I’d be imposing on the worms. Sorry, worms, I won’t take up your valuable time doing important worm stuff, I’ll just be over here out of the way.”

This is what it’s like to live in my head sometimes. Most of the time. Okay, all the time, with interludes of slightly-less-awful. I wind myself up, get mad at myself for winding myself up, wind myself up for getting mad at myself for winding myself up...it’s invasive. SO WHY DO I KEEP TRYING TO BREAK THE CYCLE, THEREBY STARTING THE CYCLE ALL OVER AGAIN?! Beats me, it really does. It makes no sense. “I’m bad at people, let me try to be good at people!” And then I go try to be good at people and end up sliding back into the pit because obviously all other people are either too good for me or absolutely terrible and there is no middle ground (per my invariably fucked up brain) so I’m back where I started. Again.

Props to you if you’re still following this logic, because I think at this point I’ve lost myself.

Let me try the simple version.

1. Elizabeth is bad at people because she has been conditioned to believe that she has no intrinsic value.
2. Elizabeth wants to be better at people, so she tries.
3. Trying makes Elizabeth feel worse because it feels like the universe is just driving home #1 above.
4. Elizabeth feels dejected and lonely and just generally awful.
5. Repeat.

You’d think I’d learn to stop trying. Apparently my humanity is preventing that. We’re not meant to be isolated. As much as I really do love doing a lot of things alone and having time alone, there’s still a hole.

I wonder if I can fill it with more rats.