I was the brainy type, you see. That, plus having a mom who was a hard-working nurse with an unfortunate penchant for losers -- Chad was by no means her last social work project-- gave me a view on life which was approximately opposite that of a Disney princess.
Unlike Melissa.
Melissa’s mom felt strongly that her daughter had been cheated of the life she deserved because of Chad’s fecklessness. This meant that, while her mom climbed the corporate ladder, Melissa had every moment in her childhood scheduled with ‘improving’ activities. A breathless round of birthday parties and extracurricular classes was closely followed by weekends dedicated to Melissa’s budding sports career, and every millisecond was supervised by Executive Mom or her appointed minion, normally some hapless illegal dragooned to serve as Melissa’s chauffeur.
After Divorce Number Two, Melissa and I saw each other intermittently, but our worlds were very different, as you can see. Neither of our mothers saw much point in our forging a sisterly relationship; there was no advantage to be had, from their point of view.
Chad had naturally reneged on all promises to pay child support, so our moms were our sole providers. Plus, we lived on opposite sides of the city. It was a long drive, and completely unreasonable to expect harried working mothers to inconvenience themselves.
So Melissa grew up in her Upper Middle Class world, and I grew up in the Briarview Manor townhomes near the hospital, with a bunch of transient hospital workers and their fragmented families for neighbors. After getting my BA in psychology at a ridiculously expensive Midwestern college, I moved back to Briarview Manor to work in the hospital billing department and pay off my student debt.
Soon, however, my life and mom’s began to conflict, which I felt was unseemly. To be honest, I was beyond fed up with mom’s bad choices in men. Now over 50, her personal life was a shambles, as clearly my time away at college had simply freed her up to pursue relationships with men who were, quite frankly, Boomer leeches. (Their term of art for women like my mom is ‘nurse with the purse’.)
I now share an apartment in an even more unfashionable part of town with another girl who is similarly positioned in life. That is, poor but ambitious, with no parents to fall back on. I am 29. I have a job that pays reasonably well, and my debt is paid off. My life is under control.
Do I sound bitter?
I try not to be. I try to stay focused. I try not to think too far ahead because as most ‘hipsters’ in my world will tell you, life is full of irony. Trying too hard just sets you up for failure.
Although, I would add that living in a dream world makes you a target.
This is just the simple truth. And lots of women my age don’t seem to get it. In search of their ‘soul mate’, my girlfriends dive deep, and disappear from sight for weeks at a time – sometimes months – when they think they’ve found ‘the one’. Only to re-surface, gasping, when they learn the truth about their latest amour. He’s drug-addicted. Or a cheater. Or allergic to adulthood.
Where are all the good ‘soul mates’, they all want to know?
What about me, you ask? Well, there was Sam, after college. He was going to be a doctor, and after he graduated from medical school discovered that there were myriads of girls far prettier and more pliable than yours truly -- who were just dying to become Mrs. Sam. So after a longish recovery period after getting dumped, I had er, ‘dates’ with guys who were too boring, or too old. Most recently – in fact until just last weekend -- there was Nick, the Serious Catholic.
Yes, that’s how I think of him. Tall, good-looking and out of his mind. Living on another planet. ‘Planet Vatican’, I call it. Goes to the Latin Mass.
If you can believe this, after three months, the guy would not sleep with me.
I am not kidding, either.
"Their term of art for women like my mom is ‘nurse with the purse.’"
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REGINA Fiction