My Nest Isn't Empty, It Just Has More Closet Space: The Amazing Adventures of an Ordinary Woman (19 page)

I’m not even twenty-five, and I’ve spotted my first sign of aging. It’s nothing physical, not a wrinkle or a gray hair. I noticed it while reading a newspaper article on my tiny BlackBerry screen, though it has nothing to do with fading eyesight. I caught myself doing something that I’d never have done a year ago, something undeniably postgraduate, something, almost,
old.

I was reading the Weddings section of the paper.

Gone are my days as a carefree college coed; now I’m in my freshman year of spinsterhood. When it comes to reading the wedding announcements, I have adopted the single-gal clichés I thought existed only in Cathy cartoons. Here’s my confession, in writing.

I scour for the ages of the brides. This is the habit that shames me the most, since I consider myself a modern woman, forging my own path, free from the trappings of time and tradition. I lift weights at the gym, I alone built my IKEA furniture, and when I saw a mouse in my apartment, I trapped and disposed of it with minimal crying. Yet here I am, subtracting my age from all the brides’—twenty-eight, okay, I got four years to find the guy; thirty-three, cool, I can date a couple duds and focus on work; twenty-five, omigod I’d have to know him NOW.

Did I read too much Jane Austen in college? Or not enough? Is my dowry approaching recession as I get closer to the other side of twenty-five? My mom can throw in a couple chickens, if that will sweeten the deal, and a corgi too, although that won’t sweeten anything.

And I read only the announcements with an accompanying photo. Why? Let’s be honest, this is about superficial judgment and self-comparison. If I can’t see the couple, how will I know who got the better end of the deal—did a chubby hubby luck out with a bombshell (he must be funny), or did Plain Jane nab a total hunk (girlfriend, tell me your secret)?

My newfound love of wedding photos extends beyond the Sunday paper. I am also a creeper of Facebook wedding albums. I friended an old classmate I barely knew, just to see her wedding photos. But I had to do it, because she always had the best clothes at school, so I knew her dress would be to die for, and she’s beautiful and skinny as a rail, and
God
—I was in wedding-pic heaven.

Until, of course, I was in self-criticism hell.

But that’s the drama of the Weddings section. It’s a thrilling roller-coaster ride of self-esteem.

I’ve even upgraded my methods of voyeurism from photos to online videos of the couples. This is where it gets juicy. Occasionally, the story of the pair’s serendipitous meeting or their gratitude for having found each other is lovely and moving, I sit smiling at the computer screen.

But other times, I cringe as red flags spring up like some cynical pop-up video: one bride whines that he took forever to propose; a groom bitterly recalls how she mocked his outfit on the first date; a dreamy-eyed couple shared love at first sight, although at the time, they were each married to other people. Good luck, kids!

Thing is, I don’t even want to be married. Well, not yet. I think I just want to be marriageable. Some men have the misconception that women are desperate for a husband, but really, all we want is the knowledge that we’re lovable. Doesn’t everybody want that reassurance from time to time? Or maybe just on Sundays?

I took my new reading habits as a sign of my advancing age, but having confessed my sins, I feel pretty childish. I’m not ready to be married. I will be someday, when I’ve stopped comparing my age, my looks, my style, myself to any stranger smiling from the newspaper. I’ll be ready when I can stop asking, “Am I lovable? Who loves me?” because I know the answer.

I do.

Of course I read the obituaries.

I can’t be the only one.

I do it every morning, in two newspapers, before I start to work. It takes a lot of time. I know, it sounds like stalling, but it’s more like praying.

You’ll see what I mean.

And it’s not as if I started reading them recently, now that it’s likelier I’ll die than find a date.

In truth, I’ve read obits all my life, even as a kid.

I never saw them as being about deaths. I saw them as being about people, and I love people.

In other words, it’s not a death story. It’s a life story.

I’m always struck by how accomplished people are, and what they’ve done in their lives that’s benefited me, only I didn’t know it. For example, today I read an obit of a doctor who was one of the first to link smoking to cancer. I owe that guy, though I never knew him. I nagged my father to quit, and he did. I nagged Mother Mary to quit, but she didn’t until she got and survived throat cancer.

Did I mention she’s stubborn?

I read another obit, of a real estate developer who changed the skyline of my beloved hometown, Philadelphia, and was also responsible for one of my favorite works of art, the giant
Clothespin
by Claes Oldenburg, which sits in front of the office building where I used to work.

I owe that guy, too.

I used to love to look out of my office window at that sculpture. It’s a brown clothespin that’s ten stories tall, and it made me smile, every day. Because of it, I bought a book about Claes Oldenburg and learned about his life and his art. So the least I can do is take the time to read about the man who introduced me to Claes Oldenburg and send him a mental thank-you note.

I always read the obits of soldiers. I owe it to them, each and every one of them. They’re so young, and they’re out there day and night, putting their very lives on the line while I make dinner or walk the dogs or pour coffee. The obits are the stories of their lives and their accomplishments, which are the greatest and most unselfish of all.

Sacrificing one’s life for another.

But not every obit is of a soldier or a famous doctor, and that’s precisely the point. Lots of obits are of cooks, dentists, teachers, and mechanics. Every death matters, because every life matters.

Everybody owes somebody, sometime.

For example, I read an obit today about a high school English teacher. I can’t imagine how many people owe her. Hundreds, maybe thousands, in all her years of teaching. I also read an obit of a fire captain who trained new firefighters at the fire academy. This was a man who saved lives and taught others to save lives. How many people owe him?

Plenty.

In our own lives, whom do we owe? Mother, father, daughter, sister, brother, aunt, teacher, doctor, girlfriend. It’s all in the obits. Each one tells the story of a human life, and of a family’s love. I look at the notices, I see the names. Grieved by grandchildren and great-grandchildren. Greatly missed by his father. Survived by a beloved wife.

It sounds simple to say, almost simplistic, but all of us are connected by love and by gratitude.

And the proof, its very particulars, are the obits.

It’s true that I’m a little sad after I finish reading them.

Sometimes the pictures break my heart.

The faces smile at the camera, grinning at someone they love, happy and alive.

They’re me.

And I remember how lucky I am, every morning.

How lucky we are, in each other.

Past, present, and even future.

All of us.

Amen.

I think I need a new car.

But I’m not sure.

I love my car, and I also love the fact that it’s paid for. It’s only five years old but it has over 100,000 miles. I know that’s a lot, but my friend whose husband is a mechanic said it should go to 200,000. And I’m not being a cheapskate, but I was liking the idea of taking care of something and having it last longer than one of my marriages.

It may not happen.

But as I say, I’m not sure.

It’s hard to know if you need a car divorce.

The past few months, lots of things have been going wrong, first with the brakes and then with some kind of pump. The most recent problem was that the entire car began sinking onto its tires. This happened while I was driving, and red lights were flashing like crazy on the dashboard, blinking CAUTION CAUTION CAUTION.

This freaked me out, especially because Daughter Francesca was in the car. You know me well enough to imagine how I’d react to that. Mommy doesn’t want a car problem when baby’s on board.

Plus she wasn’t in her car seat, because she’s twenty-four.

The only good news is that this disaster struck while I was near the dealership, so I was able to hobble there before the wheels began trailing smoke like the Batmobile.

It might have been the last straw for me and the car.

The dealer was able to fix it, but the repair was expensive, and it got me wondering, not for the first time. Maybe we really were over. How many things have to go wrong before we call it quits? In other words, I’m unhappy, but am I unhappy enough?

And am I ready to start seeing other cars?

Obviously I’ve been here before, twice. But ironically, that was a lot easier question, both times. My car worked better than either of my marriages, even considering that it now spontaneously combusts.

If relationships had red lights that blinked CAUTION CAUTION CAUTION, I might not be DIVORCED DIVORCED DIVORCED.

Anyway, I don’t know what kind of car I want. I hadn’t even begun to go there. I started taking special note of the car commercials on TV, and honestly, all the cars look the same. They drive around mountainsides and avoid squirrels. They have tops and tires. They’re all the same car, just with different names.

Then I went online to take a look at what’s on the market, like a rookie on match.com. I started with Google, where I plugged in “how to choose a new car,” which Google helpfully filled in as “how to choose a new career path.”

The only thing dumber than going on Google to choose a new car is going on Google to choose a new life.

Google sent me to websites that made all sorts of suggestions, like “top ten cars for women,” “top ten fuel-saving cars,” and “top ten deals on wheels.” Of these I checked the cars for women, which turned out to be code for minivans.

Uh, no.

I put my nursing bras away, thanks.

I’d been thinking for a long time that I should get a Prius, to help the environment and to feel morally superior.

Twice-divorced people rarely get to feel morally superior.

Then I realized that most of the car companies had “build your own” features, where you could choose a model, color, interior, and options, so I started clicking. I started with Ford, which put me onto Volvo, and on the site, there are like twenty different models, in S, V, X-C, and several other letters, which was dizzying. I switched to Lexus, then to Toyota, then to Mercedes, and two hours later, I had built more cars than a factory.

But I didn’t fall in love.

It’s all too confusing, this mixing of cars and relationships, and in the end, I rejected the Prius because it doesn’t have four-wheel drive.

I need four-wheel drive.

Till death do us part.