None of it went according to plan.
The plan was to get married and have a baby.
And then I got married. And then I couldn't have a baby. And then he didn't want me to have a baby. And then he didn't want to be married. And then it got ugly. And then he left me.
And I was 20 years old.
I tried to reboot. Fresh start, new town, new job, new friends.
I ended up moving back home and bartending.
I tried to escape. Ran away to a tropical island with a guy I had just met, leaving our cars in the driveway to be repossessed.
I ended up moving back home and working at the mall.
I tried to move to the big city. Got a fancy job with my fancy high school diploma, lived in a fancy apartment with a fancy guy who drove a fancy car. I thought that was the dream. But I hated the fancy job. And the fancy apartment. And I wasn't too fond of that fancy guy, either. I think the feeling was mutual. Mr Fancy-pants told me that he would never marry me, because I couldn't get pregnant. But I should live with him, and cook for him and clean and launder and shop for him. And sleep on the couch, or with him. Whatever. And he would just keep an eye out for someone more suitable to marry.
It didn't sound very fancy.
I was 22, and I was starting to think that maybe it was me. I was damaged goods. I was unlovable. And definitely unfit for marriage. And I needed to stop thinking about the fact that I couldn't get pregnant. I needed to make a different, better life for myself.
Because clearly, things were not going to go as planned.
And then I met this guy. He was not fancy. He was the Anti-Fancy. He was also extraordinarily kind. And sweet. And determined to date me. And unimpressed with the fancy guy and his fancy job. In fact, he told me (and anyone who would listen) that the fancy guy I was living with was an asshole.
I was shocked.
I was also relieved. So I packed up and moved out of the fancy building, and into an apartment on Dot Ave in Dorchester. And then a little while later, I moved in with Mr Anti-Fancy.
I got married.
I got pregnant. With a little help, and a lot of determination. (I told you he was determined.)
And eleven years ago, I had a baby. A Sagittarius, born in the year of the Dragon.
Pretty auspicious, considering that I couldn't get pregnant.
Hey, Mr Fancy-Pants, who's still single and miserable in a fancy apartment, alone?
My kid is eleven years old today, and cooler than you ever were. Thanks for not contaminating my gene pool.
Happy birthday to my little dude. And thanks to Mr Anti-Fancy for being so gosh-darned determined to knock me up. You sure showed them.
16 minutes ago