Nothing better than an early morning run, amiright? Just ran along the boardwalk, feel like I’m on vacation in the city! Running is one of the best ways to boost your creativity! Happy #weekend everyone! #workout #fitnessmotivation
I’m not actually running. I’m in bed, in my pajamas, thinking about my night with Will, how good we were together, how easy it was to be with him. Will I ever see him again? I post the picture Feloise took of me a few weeks ago. I wasn’t even on a run. I was just dressing the part—wearing a new pair of shiny running tights, tank top and shoes—and jogging slowly back and forth until Feloise got a crisp pic. Fitness pics do great on the ’gram, and Feloise is trying to get me a big fitness-brand contract. The client likes me, according to Feloise, but feels my grid isn’t showing as much #fitnessmotivation as they’d like to see, if they were to seriously consider partnering with me.
My account hasn’t shown a lot of fitness lately because going for a bike ride or doing a yoga class feels like one of the few times I can justify self-care without having to snap a selfie. But living alone is a lot more expensive than I ever anticipated, and it’s hard to turn down paying work. And that’s exactly what my Instagram account is, I have to remind myself whenever it doesn’t feel that fun. It’s work. A job. It just looks like real life.
My phone buzzes and my heart pounds until I remember that I completely blew Will off and there’s no chance in hell he’ll be calling me after the way I bolted out of his hotel room. Which is exactly how I want it, I remind myself. Even if that was the best sex I’ve had since things were good with Eric. Maybe before Eric, actually. But just the thought of Eric, of five years wasted…I look around my teensy apartment, how the breakup has set me back to my post-university days. Never again. This time I’m doing things on my own. No commitments. No dependency. No relationships.
My phone’s still buzzing and I’m jolted back to reality.
It’s Feloise.
“I just posted the running pic,” I say before she can ask. She’s been harping on me to post it for weeks now and I’ve been putting it off—mostly on account of the fact that I don’t actually run.
“The Fresh Food Fast people are not happy,” she says.
“What do you mean? My pics are always great.”
“But you never cook the food.”
A pang of embarrassment shoots through me, as it does whenever I fail at anything domestic. I think about my mother and how she was good at absolutely everything: cooking, knitting, sewing. Why didn’t I get any of those domestic traits?
“So?”
“So, you’re doing sponcon with a brand whose sole purpose is to provide people with all the ingredients they need to cook at home. You need to cook the food, Kit.”
“But I don’t cook. I told you that when we were signing the deal and you assured me it was going to be fine.”
Feloise sighs. “Yes, and they understand that. That’s why their PR agency is sending somebody over to cook the meals for you. All you have to do is stage the shots. You can at least do that, can’t you?”
I make a face at the phone.
“The chef will be there the day after you get back. I’ll send you the calendar invite.”
I hang up and immediately forget about Fresh Food Fast as my thoughts go back to Will. He’s probably already on his way back to wherever he lives. I flip over to the text he sent me last night and then realize something significant: his number is local.
That afternoon I’m on a plane to Milwaukee, to the North American Women in Business conference—one of my favorite events of the year—where I’m not just posing for selfies, but giving the motivational speech I’ve been working on for weeks. That’s my real passion. Not being an Instagram influencer, but influencing women with my book—Kid-Free Forever—on the many merits and joys of choosing a child-free life. The release of the book spawned dozens of No Kidding groups across the US and Canada, groups where women can get together to talk about their careers, their goals, anything—anything, that is, except children. I had no idea how much the idea would take off, but more and more groups are popping up everywhere. Women seem desperate for a safe place where they can talk, guilt-free, about their desire, and decision, to remain child-free.
I’m settled into my seat, reviewing my talk, when my phone pings.
The other night was fun. You free for dinner this week—Thursday?
My whole body tingles. There’s something I find so attractive about him—despite initially being turned off by his arrogance. I like that he seems old-fashioned, writing texts in full sentences, as though it’s an email, and that he’s decisive, asking me to a specific activity on a certain day, rather than most guys, who are so vague you’re not sure if they want to see you this century or next—or if they even care either way. Would it be so bad to see Will again? What’s the big deal? But I know I can’t. Because it’s there—that unsettling feeling I get in my stomach whenever someone feels like they might be more than a short-lived fling. And right now, I can’t let myself go down that path—can’t let myself fall for someone who will inevitably tell me that they’re so relieved not to hear my maternal clock ticking, then ghost me for the same reason. Because that’s what happens every time. So for now, until I figure out a foolproof method to avoid heartbreak, I need to stick to guys whose names I can barely remember—or don’t take up more than a millisecond of thought per day. And right now, Will’s on dangerous ground.
I close the messages and slip my phone in my purse and pull out my book.
I check into the hotel, text Gloria and Xiu, two of my best friends who are also attending the conference, to let them know I’ve arrived, unpack, and run through the talk that I’m giving this evening at the opening dinner. I quickly get dressed and head down to the lobby bar. Several women from the local No Kidding chapter greet me as I enter the dark, amber-hued space.
“We’ve been following you on Instagram for years,” says one. Another tells me she’s been a fan since I had my No Kidding blog on BuzzFeed. That seems like a lifetime ago—my whole “dating when you know you don’t want children” schtick. The woman is about my age, and introduces herself as Arietta Smythe—and it’s a name I recognize.
“Oh, I love your work,” I tell her. “I order your day planner every year.”
Arietta creates inspirational agendas for working women, which means she’s filtered out the family-focused reminders that seem endemic to any female-aimed day planner. Sundays are no longer for meal-planning, but for replying to the hundred emails you’ve let slide over the week.
Gloria and Xiu find me and we quickly catch up. Xiu’s quieter than usual, but I figure she’s just tired, since she puts in eighty-hour weeks and probably more, this week, just to be here. Gloria makes up for her, though, rattling on about the latest house she sold—while on the flight here. “Laneway apartments are goldmines for me,” she says. “You should consider it.”
I shake my head. “I want a garage.”
“I know, but for your price range…” She gives me a look, like she knows best, and maybe she does know real estate but I know what I need. Gloria’s the only one who knows I’m looking for a garage, but she doesn’t know the reason why.
A woman close to us is on her phone and is sounding more and more agitated. “It’s one weekend, Miles. You just have to figure it out. You’re the other parent, remember?”
Gloria laughs. “I love our child-free life, don’t you two?” And I exhale, because I really, really do.
Just then, one of the meetup organizers materializes to ask whether we’ve snapped a pic in front of the event backdrop that’s emblazoned with the #womeninbiz hashtag, and after a quick detour to get that out of the way, we follow the crowd into the ballroom where we’ll be having dinner. I make a plan to meet up with Xiu and Gloria later, back in the bar, then make my way to the head table, where I’m seated next to the one-armed female surfer whose memoir I devoured six months before. Since devoured is probably not the best word choice for a memoir about surviving a shark attack, I instead tell her I couldn’t put the book down. She’s also read my book, and asks me if I plan to write another. “My publisher is hoping I’ll write a follow-up—you know, five years later…” She makes a face and I nod. “Mine, too.” That’s the thing—while both our books may be bestsellers, they’re not timeless classics that’ll continue to sell at the same rate for years to come. And many of the women in the audience probably already have my book. Soon, these conference organizers won’t purchase the book as part of my contract. While I loved writing Kid-Free Forever, it took me a really long time, and that was before Instagram campaigns started taking up so much of my energy. And with everything else I want to be doing, writing another book just isn’t on my radar right now.
Out of the corner of my eye I catch the meetup organizer, a petite woman of about forty, short blond bob, calf-length wrap dress, nude heels, make her way onto the stage. She taps the mic with her nail and asks for silence at the lectern. We all turn to listen.
She introduces herself, welcomes us and then walks through the high points of my bio. To hear my story like that, it sounds very impressive, even to me. Except really, in the post-internet publishing market, even a bestselling book doesn’t provide much to live on. Although what it does provide is a solid social media following. And with that, the constant requests from brands to partner with you to monetize your audience.
The applause signals it’s my turn to take the mic. I stand, turn to the crowd, and wave to the hundreds of women in the room. I’ve given a version of this talk many times over the years, but this is definitely the largest crowd. This Women in Business weekend has drawn more than two thousand attendees and the dinner is completely sold out. And everyone’s getting a copy of Kid-Free Forever.
These are my people. My women. My friends. Or at least, the child-free-by-choice ones. The ones who don’t agree with me will probably slip out to the bar or to use the restroom while I give my little motivational speech.
“Hello ladies!” I say into the mic. “Who else is so glad they’ve made it here? To this convention, for this weekend, to be surrounded by thousands of inspiring women who are just like you. You’re hard-working, you’re independent. You’re strong! You’re savvy! Maybe you’re child-free like me”—I pause in advance for the imminent applause, cheers and whoops of agreement—“and maybe you’re not, but for this weekend, you’re all here, which means you’ve made yourselves the priority. And I am so happy to see so many familiar faces out there—and so many new ones who I hope to meet this weekend. Because we’re women, we’re amazing and we’re here to make our careers better, to make ourselves better, to make our lives better! Together!”
The crowd applauds, and I beam.
The following morning, lanyard on, I take my seat at the first session of the day. A Bosnian refugee talks about her journey to becoming an AI professor. A widow of a capo in the Sinaloa drug cartel tells us how she’s established an educational charity. I sit in on a lecture about how the invention of the bicycle triggered an early wave of Victorian-era feminism. By the time lunch rolls around I feel so inspired I could take on the world.
The afternoon sees everything break up into one of three different streams. I’m on the Child-free by Choice panel. The room is small, but packed. Even women who have children tend to attend panels on the topic—because for many, having children doesn’t mean putting their careers aside. Though it also means the talks can get a bit controversial. Nothing I can’t handle, though.
“Do you look down on women who choose to have children?” comes the inevitable question toward the end. The question’s directed at me, as the movement’s nominal head.
“Of course not,” I say. “I don’t look down on anybody. Child-free by choice is a very personal decision. And each one of us has to define, in our own way, how we came to it. I can’t speak for anyone but myself, but what I want women to know is that their contribution to society goes well beyond their capacity for procreation. Having the ability to create life doesn’t make it an obligation. I just don’t see why this single biological capacity should allow anyone else—men or women—to make assumptions about me, or other women, for the simple fact I happen to have a uterus. Pursuing a child-free lifestyle stands as a rejection of those assumptions. The powerful women who identify as child-free are combatting the idea that women have to be mothers and are creating a new template for female identity. We’re expanding minds. And expanding minds is hard work.”
“What about your own mother? What do you think about her, then?” someone else asks as a follow-up.
My jaw clenches. “My mother has nothing to do with this. Next question.”
The next day I’m standing in line at airport security, waiting for my carry-on to go through the X-ray machine, when a TSA officer confronts me. “Is this yours?” He’s patting a small blue suitcase in front of him.
Uh-oh. “Umm, yes?”
“I’m going to have to ask you to meet me at the end of the line,” he says, his voice cold and formal.
The officer is about my age, with dark-chocolate skin and piercing brown eyes. Full lips. Broad shoulders. I smile at him sweetly, but he doesn’t budge, and I suddenly feel very nervous.
“Where are you headed?”
“Toronto.”
He nods.
I stare as he pulls on a pair of black plastic gloves and unzips my bag.
Thankfully my clothes are folded neatly and my underwear is well hidden. But then he starts rooting around. His hands disappear into the bag and out comes the first of my gifts.
Earlier today, we were bussed to an old Harley Davidson factory in the outskirts of Milwaukee that now produces vibrators for a company run entirely by women. We were given the grand tour, which concluded with all of us receiving several of their top-sellers as parting gifts. We all got a good laugh, but now that my bag is open under the harsh fluorescent light, it’s beyond me why I had to accept them all.
“What’s this?” he asks.
“The Softail Slim,” I say, staring at the combination of chrome and rubber in his hand. We’d learned about the benefits of its deep rumble. I decide not to elaborate.
He sets it on the table next to my bag.
Next comes the Fat Boy. It’s bright pink and rubbery and wobbly in his hand. That goes alongside the Softail Slim. Then comes the Low Rider (it goes low and slow) and the Road King (it will take you places).
I can feel the lineup of people behind me. Men, women. Children. The elderly. They’re all watching the officer remove the last of the devices—the Electra Glide, which comes with a little nub designed to—well, it doesn’t matter. My face is burning. Could I just abandon my bag right here and now? Is there anything in the suitcase I really need? Then I remind myself there is really nothing to be embarrassed about. I take a deep breath, square my shoulders and look the officer in the eyes.
“Is that it?” he asks. His formality has dropped and now he’s smirking.
“That’s it,” I reply firmly.
“You know,” he says, putting the vibrators back into my suitcase and zipping it shut, “with a little lipstick, you could easily find a man to do all this, right?”