I’m on the phone with Feloise the following morning discussing a lunch ’n’ learn speakers’ series I want her to pitch me for when Dr. Anjii’s office nurse, Nena, calls my name. “Shoot, I’ve gotta go. But hey, I just want to say sorry again about last night—” I still feel so bad about inviting Feloise to the group. I truly can’t imagine how hard it must be to want something so badly and know there’s nothing you can do to have that. It makes me feel lucky—and motivated to take action on the things I really want out of my life that I’ve been putting off.
“We’re good.” Feloise is back to her no-nonsense self. “Like I said, I was PMSing. Nothing more. I don’t need therapy. I’m fine. Besides, could I work 24 / 7 if I had kids? No. And neither could you—which is why you’re my superstar client. Now go.”
I hang up and hurry over to Nena. “Sorry about that.”
She shakes her head but smiles. “Are you always working?”
“Pretty much.” Nena hands me a gown and then shuts the door behind her so I can change. A moment later Dr. Anjii enters and sits in the chair by the computer and turns to me. “How are you, Kit?” she asks. The fact that she always remembers to call me Kit, and not Katherine, endears her to me.
“Any changes to your life since I last saw you?” she asks, glancing over the clipboard in her hand. “Last time you were here you were taking a multivitamin. Would that still be accurate?”
I can’t remember ever taking a multivitamin.
“Scratch the multivitamin and add a breakup.”
She turns to me, her forehead creasing, but I tell her I’m fine. “It’s been over a year.” She tells me it’s more important than ever to be taking a multivitamin. More important than ever? Do single women need more vitamins? Does it stave off the adoption of cats and dying alone?
“It keeps the doctor away better than apples,” she says. “Calcium would be a good supplement too. And iron. Is your period regular?”
“Ish. Maybe I’m in menopause?” My sister, Izzy, is always talking about menopause as though it’s a bad thing, like it’s the final step before death. But I say: bring it on. If you’re not going to have kids, why worry about a period? But maybe periods are better than hot flashes?
She scribbles on my sheet. “You’re still quite young to be in menopause, or even peri-menopause. But you should monitor your menstruation cycle. Keep track on your phone. It’s pretty easy. How’s your stress level?” she asks.
“OK.”
“And money. Can you make ends meet?”
“Yes.”
“What about your eating habits?”
“All the food groups. Usually.”
“Drinking?”
“A glass or two,” I guess.
“A week?”
Yikes. “A day?” I say. “But not every day. Definitely not on Mondays.”
“Hmmm. And how about your mental health?”
I consider telling her that sometimes, I get scared. That thirty-five is coming up and…my thoughts go to Mom. What if my time is almost up? A few weeks ago, over cocktails with the gals, the topic of milestone birthdays came up and I felt myself listening rather than brainstorming bucket-list places to go for my fortieth. Because sometimes, I worry I’m not even going to make it to my fortieth. But instead of sharing this thought now, with Dr. Anjii, I say nothing. She’s not a therapist. “It’s fine. I’m good. Busy.”
“Are you sexually active?”
Again, I stop to consider my answer. “I’m not dating anyone, but I have sex sometimes.” I think about Will. And how I’m definitely not going to have sex with him again.
“You use protection, right?”
“Always.”
She puts my file down and leans closer.
“Have you given any thought to freezing your eggs?”
“Freezing my eggs?” I repeat.
“You’re thirty-three. I know last time you were here we discussed this, and you said you and your boyfriend weren’t planning on having kids, but if you’re not in a relationship right now, it could take a year or two before you meet someone you want to have children with—if you’re thinking you want the option. Or you may decide you want to have a child alone. Freezing your eggs reduces the chance of the eggs being too old and tired.”
“I thought you said I was young.”
“Young for menopause. Old for bearing children the natural way.”
“Well, I don’t want to be a mother,” I say, steeling myself for Dr. Anjii’s protests. I know how this conversation goes, because I’ve had it hundreds of times, whenever I’ve said I don’t want kids to those who have them. First there are the raised eyebrows. Then, the questions. “Are you not able to have children?” or “Do you hate children?” Of course my doctor is not going to say these things, but I suspect she’ll use the third option: “You’ll change your mind.” As though at thirty-three it’s not possible that I can be set in my own mind, to know how I want the rest of my life to play out.
I wait for Dr. Anjii to say something, but she doesn’t. She simply nods and tells me to lie down on my back for my physical. I do, then sit back up. “Why didn’t you challenge me there?” Her back is to me, and she turns around.
“Pardon?”
“Why didn’t you say ‘Are you sure?’ or something?”
She pulls on a pair of gloves and interlaces her fingers together. “It’s not my place.”
I lie back down and stare up at the ceiling, at a New Yorker cartoon of two jailbirds in striped jumpsuits. One has removed the bricks in the wall to escape. The other is lying on his cot, a book in hand. No thanks, he says. Reading is my escape. I smile.
Dr. Anjii inspects my breasts, and tells me to exhale while counting to five. Knowing my family history, she must recognize this makes me anxious, because she counts with me.
Twenty minutes later, she hangs her stethoscope around her neck, announcing that we’re done. “We should have the test results within a few days. No news is good news but if you’re worried about anything or you haven’t heard from us, you can always call and ask for me, OK?” Before I change out of my gown, I snap a selfie, thinking I can share it as a reminder to others to make time for their own physicals. Feloise hates when I post anything that’s not fun on my feed, but what’s the point of having a platform if I can’t use it to help others? That’s part of the whole reason I started my Instagram account—to be real. And even though, in the past year or so, the pendulum’s swung the other way, to the paid promos, I’ve got to channel the motivation I’m always sharing with others—like in Milwaukee, or at the No Kidding dinners. I Favorite the photo so I don’t forget to schedule it later.
My phone pings, reminding me that I agreed to meet Thom with an H, for a drink. When one of the No Kidding women suggested I meet her cousin, I jumped at the chance to maybe, hopefully, forget Will by moving on. We’re meeting at You’ve Bean Served, which is the name of his coffee shop. I tell myself that he’s a legit business owner, which is nothing like a topknot-wearing male barista. But I can already see that the photo Casey showed me was not quite accurate because he does have long hair. And while it’s not pulled back into a man bun, he is wearing a tank top. He probably does yoga, too. I’m too judgy—there’s nothing wrong with yoga.
Thom with an H is mopping the floor when I arrive at the shop. He looks up when I tap on the glass door. Smiling, he comes over to let me in since the shop closed at six.
“Hi, hi, hi,” he says, opening the door wider. “Come in, come in, come in. I’m so glad we could finally get this thing going,” he says and puts the mop to the side, then wipes his hands on his shorts. I’m not sure what we’re “getting going” but I nod and try to keep an open mind.
He goes behind the bar and asks me what style of coffee he can get me.
“Are you sure you don’t want to go somewhere else?” I ask him. “We can get a drink and you won’t feel like you’re working.”
“Oh I just love bean here after closing. Bean here.” He slaps his leg.
“Punny. Can I get a decaf?”
He makes a face. “You know even decaf has caffeine right? And by attempting to strip the bean of caffeine you’re stripping it of its whole raison d’être.”
“I’m just trying to cut back after noon.”
“Well we don’t really do decaf—like, we don’t even have it.”
“Alright,” I sigh. “I’ll have a regular coffee.” I force a smile and Thom looks absolutely delighted.
“Great!” He claps his hands together. “So tell me, what kind of coffee have you bean craving?”
Breathe, Kit. He’s passionate about something. That’s a good quality. “Any kind.”
“We have this new Peruvian.”
“I’m sure whatever you’re having will be perfect.” Can he just brew the damn coffee?
So Thom is a beanist. Plus, even though he’s really tall, he reminds me of a golden retriever—he has golden skin and golden hair that flows in waves down to his shoulders. And when he moves it’s more like he’s lumbering and when he breathes, it’s like he’s panting.
As Thom goes on—and on and on—about coffee, my mind wanders to Will. What is he doing right now? Is he building Lego with his daughter? Or watching her from the bleachers while she takes her swimming lesson? Or is she with her mother while he’s on a date with someone else? I force myself to refocus on Thom. Who is fine. Happy. Loveable. Like a dog. Exactly what I need. I wouldn’t even have to walk him. A self-sufficient companion.
Four years later, after the coffee has finally brewed to perfection, we’re sitting across from each other on the two chairs Thom has flipped right-side up. The coffee is beautiful. He’s done that thing with the foam and a toothpick to create art, but as I look closer, I realize, it’s not simply a swirl or a heart.
“Is this…me?” He’s captured the waves of my hair, the collar of my shirt. I look away from the coffee and up at him. He’s smiling broadly.
“You like it?”
I nod. It’s really impressive. And thoughtful.
“Good, good, good,” he’s saying.
I snap a photo of my coffee and then ask Thom to take another, of me and the coffee. “I’ll post this later,” I say, taking a sip. Maybe I was too harsh on Thom with an H. “You’re really talented.”
“Aw shucks. I’m not going to lie—I practised it a few times, before you got here. Had a look at your Instagram account. You sure do have a lot of photos of yourself on there.” I can feel my face heat up. I know that to non-influencers, the number of selfies I post is borderline obnoxious. I’m regretting having asked him to take my photo just now.
“It’s not a bad thing,” he says quickly. “You’re easy to look at.”
I clear my throat.
“So, so, so,” Thom says, rubbing his hands together, back and forth, back and forth like he’s starting a fire between them. “The way I figure it is if this date goes well then for the next date we should get the ol’ folks involved. I think at our age the only way to see if a relationship is going to work is to kickstart it. You know? Really giv’r. Be all in.”
I’m a bit too stunned to speak.
“Or…no? You look frightened. I know you don’t want kids,” he says, flipping his long, shiny hair over his shoulder. “Again, the Instagram thing. Which is great, because I have a whole plan and I think we could really work well together on that front. I know I know, I move fast but so does life.”
My heart is pounding. “I think maybe you’re a few cups of coffee ahead of me on this.”
But he’s not hearing me.
“I think not having kids is the way to go. The earth is overpopulated, and I mean, climate change, dude. Who would even want to bring kids into this world? Plus, they’re so draining on energy, time, resources, the whole shebang. I figure, we both have good careers, we both make good money, why not spend it helping others? Every few months we could go somewhere and do something good—build a house for Habitat for Humanity, help put up a windmill in Africa, all the rebuilding that will need to be done once the flooding starts.”
He babbles on, but I find myself actually considering his offer. After graduating college, a few friends and I did a build in Cuba, but it seemed so showy—like, look at us, doing good on our vacation, when we mostly just goofed off and let others do the hard work. Maybe it’s time to try again. For real this time.
“You’ve really thought this out,” I say.
He nods and leans closer. “Sure have. Sure have.”
The ladies from Clean Slate, the cleaning service I get twice a month in exchange for posts, wake me up with their arrival. I forgot they were coming, which makes me feel guilty. If my mom could see me now, allowing someone else to clean up the mess I made in my own home, I know she would be ashamed of me. And yet, I scramble to get out of my place without showering. A few hours later, I’m still sitting at Jimmy’s, drinking decaf and trying to get some work done but finding myself distracted by thoughts of Will despite the barrage of texts Thom keeps sending. How is it possible that someone I have no interest in dating is now stopping me from dating other guys? Sure, hooking up with Thom was not the most enticing idea, given his whole panting dog vibe, but he was clearly into me—and was definitely disappointed when I didn’t follow him back to his apartment last night, instead choosing to go home alone and curl up in bed with my book. The old me—the two-weeks-ago me, the me before I met Will—would’ve definitely gone home with Thom. So what is going on?
When I return to my apartment, it’s spotless. But the clean lines of the cabinets, the white walls, the structured furniture, it all feels so sterile and empty and cold. My phone dings, telling me it’s time to post a photo. I open the app, the explosion of bright colors filling the screen. Today’s photo is one of me sitting on a pink velvet couch in front of a wall of fresh florals, at an event for a new pink lipstick that’s supposed to look good on everyone. The lipstick does look good on me, but it took me twenty minutes to get it off my lips before bed, and then my lips were chapped for two days afterward. But I really like the PR rep and she’s already emailed me three times to remind me that today’s the day the lipstick hits beauty counters everywhere in conjunction with #NationalLipstickDay. I hit Share and unleash my bubbly, happy self out into the world. And that hollow feeling in my chest takes hold. Maybe Thom’s right. Maybe I should use my extra energy and time to do things that give me a good feeling in my soul. But being a voice for child-free women is my cause, and I know that every speech I give, every event I host, every group I sponsor helps other women. So why doesn’t it feel like enough anymore? I know why. Because so much of what I do, like posting lipstick selfies, has nothing to do with that. And if I’m going to be doing stuff that isn’t helping others, I want to be focusing on the project I’ve been putting off for years. And yet, even now, I don’t try to tackle it.
Instead, I go to my bedroom closet, pull out Anne of Green Gables, which is one of those books I find as comforting as a warm blanket, and flip to one of the dog-eared pages, to read a line I love: It has been my experience that you can nearly always enjoy things if you make up your mind firmly that you will. I curl up on the couch. It may be the world’s most beautiful couch, all shiny and white, but it’s cold and uncomfortable.