Tab A Into Slot B.

As a young woman, I had this holistic vision that I would have this perfect life, with the perfect husband, the perfect career, and 2.2 children. You know, the American dream! Well, I was well on my way to it, and then all hell broke loose. Apparently, I wasn't meant to have the perfect husband, or 2.2 children. Let me explain the onset of this tirade.

R and I had a discussion today about some friends we had met on our trip to Aruba. They, after several rounds of IVF, are ready to welcome their first child in mid-July. Somehow, the conversation derailed into how I would not want to know the gender of the baby, if I was lucky enough to ever have another child. He remarked that he was "sure" I would have another child, and I mentioned that I would much rather raise my daughter alone if I couldn't have what I wanted. And then I said the phrase that so many women utter throughout their lives: I HATE DATING. See, "hate" is a word that I just don't use. I think its connotations conjure up mental pictures of horrible people and things. Hate, to me, is a very very strong word. And I hate dating.

Dating, to me, is not unlike a pageant interview. You have your pretty little woman, smashed into an outfit and shoes that she would NEVER purposely wear for comfort's sake (but it sure does look good), standing tall in front of a person that is forced to make a snap-judgement call upon them. During the course of the interview (errr, date), you take the conversation and guide it how you want it to be. You steer it away from topics that are not your strongest suit, and try to keep the conversation moving to the point where you have command and control over it. After the allotted time, you thank them for their time, and you walk away with your head held high to show your confidence level. Then, after getting out of sight and earshot, you collapse and begin to overanalyze your performance. And that's what it is: a performance. Come on now, do you really think that there would be a second date if I showed up to a first date with my hair all screwed up, wearing my favorite yoga pants and a circa 1997 sorority formal sweatshirt? You put on this front of your "best self", to make a good impression, and hope that your score corresponds with a "win".

All of this comes back to the bottom line: if you don't date, you have very little chance to have a child. Without denigrating into a "how babies are made" speech, if there ain't no "tab a into slot b", then there ain't no baby. Unless you go the sperm bank route. And that's not my idea of a good time. But hey - a turkey baster would have significantly less drama than a real live man, after all ...