http://lifewithoutbaby.com/2012/04/26/how-to-be-happily-childfree-in-10000-easy-steps/
loribeth says:
April 26, 2012 at 8:09 am
Very true. I always try to remind others in this situation that time is the best healer, and that Rome wasn’t built in a day — you can’t change an entire lifetime of expectations, plans and dreams overnight.
This was sent to me today, and I found it annoying because I didn’t break any of her “rules” (and I’m not tall and don’t have curly hair– and btw I would kill for either), and I still had very little success with the whole endeavor:
http://online.wsj.com/article/SB10001424127887323374504578217973101313736.html
Oh and if this is the cliche line that reeled them in, I was right to throw in the towel:
Instead of bullet points and résumé speak, I wrote that “my friends would describe me as an outgoing and social world traveler, who’s equally comfortable in blue jeans and little black dresses.”
http://www.salon.com/2013/01/16/divorcing_while_pregnant/
I restrategized. Instead of smartly walking myself to a shrink to examine why my self-worth was intrinsically tied to how I measured up, I was determined to find a husband — the clear route to a baby. With friends, I’d scour the city’s male-heavy locales. Late nights at a smoke-filled cigar bar netted me nothing more than the card of a CPA whose ring finger clearly had the tan line of a wedding band. I would hit buckets of golf balls, badly, at Chelsea Piers to no effect. New York City’s eligible bachelors didn’t want to settle down with me. Why would they when they could be kissing the neck of a 19-year-old Croatian model at the Dream Hotel?
I networked tirelessly with my business contacts to send eligible men my way. Miraculously, one of the TV anchors I’d known set me up with a CEO I’d actually placed on my show at Bloomberg. It seemed like divine providence. Just weeks into dating, he was asking if I wanted a family, if I’d move for love. He lived in San Diego, but promised we’d always have a New York apartment. “Would you mind being bicoastal?” he asked? “Not at all,” I shrugged, pinching myself. There is a Santa, Virginia.
Unlike other men, this one gave me attention. Maybe too much. He was upset on the nights I wanted to burrow alone in my Tudor City apartment with an indie movie and Thai 51 takeout. When I needed a night off, I’d lie and say I had a work commitment. One night he caught me. “How was your dinner downtown?” he asked. “Fine.” I replied. “I walked by your apartment and could see you watching TV. Why would you lie?”
Instead of questioning why he would stare into my windows, my twisted sense of self found it flattering. He might be the jealous type, but damn it, he loves me. In just four months, I was engaged.
January 13th marked my one-year anniversary of starting this blog!
A mere few weeks ago, I was contemplating staying in place another year, using that time to explore every last inch of this metropolis. That thought was contingent, however, on my job stress at least holding steady.
Unfortunately things are heating up again, and it’s looking like I’ll be returning to my former home sooner rather than later. Quite soon, in fact.
Sir Hugh, of the Grenadier Guards, proposed several times during 1932. Nancy considered it, but couldn’t talk herself into pretending to love him. The prospect of his ‘gingerbread mansion’ was tempting—‘one could be so jolly well dressed and take lovers’—but behind her attempts at sophistication, there was a real fear of the confinement marriage could bring… She had written to Tom: ‘If only I had any real talent I would so much rather remain single like Edith Sitwell.’ Then, immediately she backed out: ‘No, I think it would probably be nicer to be married really or shall I become a celebrated demi mondaine, one of the really snappy ones?’ To Mark Ogilvie-Grant she explained that she thought financial independence was the greatest human happiness, and even at the lowest points of her relationship with Hamish she kept working away at it, grasping faintly but firmly at the prospect of another life, one that could be lived on her own terms.
– Lisa Hilton, The Horror of Love: Nancy Mitford and Gaston Palewski In Paris and London, p. 38
thebitterbabe 