Meternity

by Meghann Foye

  “We didn’t want to worry you, honey. It’s not a big deal. You’ve got time,” says Brie, although there’s a note in her tone that doesn’t believe it.

  “Look, Lizzie, first things first. Figure out how you’re getting out of Paddy Cakes. Then, we’ll talk eggs.”

  Heads down, we silently scan our menus, as I begin to wonder whether everyone in New York is worried about fertility except me—the baby magazine editor. I feel so stupid. What have I been thinking? How fresh are my eggs? In a split second, I text Jules to find out the name of her new high-powered ob-gyn. Over dinner, our conversation, which normally flows as freely as our carafe of wine, is stilted. A powerlessness seems to sweep us all out to sea.

  “Soooo, how is plan Secret-4-the-One going,” I say, a little too eagerly, hoping not to have to discuss the Ryan situation quite yet, all the while feeling bad about the other night, and on alert for any Ryan texts.

  Brie sets down her phone. “Not well. Five dates, five duds and I think I burned the whole Baxter thing into the ground.”

  “Really?” I ask. “You didn’t tell me that.”

  “Yeah. I actually met up with him on Tuesday,” says Brie, bashful.

  “What happened?” Addison looks like she’s already heard the story.

  “Well...” Brie looks down. “We went through two bottles of malbec, he came back with me to my place. I totally thought we’d just hook up, but then we got to talking, and he proceeded to break down about his feelings about his ex-wife.”

  “You know that’s your crack,” I intone.

  “Total wounded bird syndrome,” chimes in Addison.

  “Yep. So, I began to feel close to him—which made me want to jump his bones. Of course, then I proceeded to go crazy when he didn’t make a move.”

  We both give her a look, like we know what’s coming next.

  “I’m like, what’s the matter? You don’t want any of this? Why are you in my apartment?” Brie pretends to shake her boobs. “And he had no answer, so I kept drinking and continued on until I passed out on my couch. The next morning he was nowhere to be found. What the eff?”

  “I just think this city makes guys totally fucked up,” says Addison. “Member that investor guy I was talking to at Brie’s party? Afterward we went back to my place, but in midmakeout, he took out his phone and actually answered a call from his girlfriend. I was like, are you kidding me?”

  I sigh. “They probably smell baby fever. And now girls in their twenties are freezing their eggs, so there’s that...” The girls barely register the joke.

  “That reminds me. Have you heard from Ryan?” Addison looks around impatiently. “Why are they taking so long to refill our carafe?”

  “Nope. I totally screwed it up—I think,” I tell the girls, recounting the whole story from last night, as I battle the urge to check my phone.

  “It’s okay, sweetie,” says Brie. “Our PH’s are out there.”

  I cringe thinking about what Ryan said. “I’m not just looking for a PH, Brie.”

  “What I mean is, if Ryan doesn’t come around, another one will.” Brie looks down at my stomach.

  “I know. And I actually don’t know what I want at this point. I thought it was to be a travel writer. But now, I’ve really been enjoying writing these longer features. I feel like, maybe this is what I’m supposed to be doing with my life.” I hunch my shoulders in defeat. “What am I going to do?”

  “Look,” Addison says, “when I was going back and forth on whether I should quit magazines, my dad asked me, ‘Are you running away from something you don’t want, or running toward something you do?’”

  “How did you know what you wanted?” I ask.

  “I just knew I wanted a bigger future for myself, and I knew that was never going to happen polishing someone else’s copy. So I trusted my gut. And then I went for it.”

  “My gut seems to be getting bigger and bigger,” I sniff to no one’s amusement. Looking around the table, everyone looks tired. Still, I don’t want to face my thoughts tonight so I ask if anyone wants to continue at the bar next door.

  Addison yawns. “I would, but I have to work tomorrow. Halpren-Davies actually called me in for a meeting on Monday, so I want to prepare. I have no idea what they want—there’s no way I’m going back on staff—or just hand over the Couture Collective blogger arsenal for some nominal fee to gain access to their platform.”

  Brie suddenly looks as if she’s just thought of something, rubbing her hands together. “Will you come with me to this weekend intensive at the Life-Wise Institute tomorrow?” Brie asks me. “I’m supposed to bring a guest.”

  “I don’t know, Brie. I’m not really into that stuff. Plus, I’ve got a lot going on if I’m going to start pitching articles.”

  “Come on, Lizzie, it will be good for you. You’ll get a lot out of it.”

  “Okay, fine. Text me the address.”

  Brie gives me a big hug and then we wait until she gets in a cab. I decide to walk to save some money, and, as I do, I feel my phone ting. I see who it is. Ryan.

  Hey Liz, guess what? Liverpool won the championship!

  WTF?! I think. That’s it? It’s like he’s completely erased what happened last night. And didn’t think to ask me to the last game?! I reread the message, and in one quick second, I hit Delete.

  Sixteen

  PUSH! :) Notification! Week 22: Forgetting everything from your phone to your Gmail password? “Pregnancy brain” hormones are actually shrinking and changing your brain to prepare for motherhood—how creepy is that?! But don’t worry, it’s totally normal, and is happening to help you stay focused on the task at hand—i.e. not killing your kid. Baby Smiles: 1!

  On Saturday morning, I meet Brie down on Twenty-Third and Park at a surprisingly normal-looking office tower. Still, I’m suspicious.

  “Okay, don’t look at me like that. It’s going to be fun,” she says. “You’re going to break through all the barriers that have been holding you back. Green smoothie before we go in?”

  “I don’t know, Brie. With everything going on, I don’t know if it’s wise to try to break through any more barriers.”

  “I get it, sweetie. But, just keep an open mind.”

  My feisty friend and I take the elevator up to the eighteenth floor, where there are about thirty chairs lined up toward a front projector in a big open loft area. “That’s for the group interactive sessions,” says Brie, pointing toward six long conference-room-style tables at the other end.

  To my surprise, very upwardly mobile-looking professional men and women file in, and for the next few hours we listen to a talk from the well-put-together leader. It’s on living from the heart versus living from the head and finding your purpose and fulfilling your passion. All pretty interesting. I start actually thinking that Brie’s right. After years in an industry obsessed with the latest trends, greatest idea, I have only been driven by living from my caffeine-fueled frontal lobe. Maybe that’s why it’s been so hard to know what I really want.

  After lunch, we gather into smaller groups around the metal tables. Brie is placed with me. A woman with an uncontained mass of half curly, half wavy brown hair and bright red reading glasses that she keeps placing on and off the bridge of her nose, then the top of her head, seeming to forget the exact coordinates at both turns, introduces herself ominously as “Heidi, a reformed ‘pleaser-avoider.’” She asks us to introduce ourselves, tell each other one life goal and one thing that we feel has been holding us back. Hmm, I think, a job where I’m rewarded for commoditizing motherhood, an evil boss who loves to torture me, or my own twenty-two-week lie? Hard to choose.

  As we go around the table, I’m surprised to hear a variety of stories to which I can strangely relate. A well-heeled businesswoman in her early forties talks about how unfulfilled she is after
giving up the chance to have a child with her husband for fear her business would suffer. An Indian man in his late twenties confesses that he’s made millions on his tech start-ups, but he’s never spoken to a woman outside his offices and stays home playing “World of Warcraft” most nights. Brie shares that she may be using her hookup situation to receive male affirmation that she’s attractive because she’s worried about growing older. Everyone nods understandingly. The emotion feels very raw and exposed for having just met these people.

  But still, it’s sad. And opens a vein.

  “Hello, everyone. I’m Liz. I’m a thirty-one-year-old magazine editor.” I hesitate for a second, then go for it. “I have a life goal of quitting my job to become a freelance writer,” I say nervously.

  “Wonderful,” purrs Heidi. “What’s one thing holding you back?”

  “I don’t know. Money. Some unfair circumstances at work, some people I’ve been in conflict with...general frustrations—”

  “You’re an easy one. An ‘angry glosser,’” she says, cutting me off. “You’ve never been allowed to express your negative emotions, so you end up glossing over them with happier stories...” She smiles. I smile back. She totally gets it. Then she frowns, adding “...that unfortunately aren’t your truth.”

  “Okay,” I allow. “I’m...a bit...peeved.”

  A man in his late twenties with a what must be ironic SpongeBob SquarePants tattoo on his bicep nods in solemn agreement.

  “Liz, the word I used was angry. So, what’s that about, d’you think?” asks Heidi.

  I think about it. “It’s not about one thing, exactly. I have this little ball of fiery anger in my belly. It’s just a collective anger. Anger for women in general. We’re told to be everything and do everything and when we eff up in one little, tiny way, we’re picked apart for it.” The room seems appreciative, so I continue. “I’m angry that it’s happening and I’m angry at the people who seem to be causing it.”

  “So, who’s the cause of this collective anger?” she asks.

  “Men?” I grasp.

  “Really? You think it’s men?” Clearly Heidi does not.

  “The man?” I say in question form, though from Heidi’s expression, I can tell that’s not right, either.

  “I know!” I say, getting an idea. “Other women?” I ask. “Mean, bitchy, controlling women who try to fake what they imagine men do to exert power. But actually men don’t do that.” SpongeBob is again nodding. He totally gets it. Everyone else, including Brie, looks a bit horrified.

  “And how does it make you feel?”

  “I feel like I want to rage. Or at least sing some Alanis Morissette.” Brie can’t hold back a snicker on that one.

  “I guess I just feel like life has become untenable for women. We’re told that if we’d just wake up an hour earlier to get to PowerCycle, and devote our waking lives to eating ‘clean,’ we’d be happy. But really, that just means you spend all day tracking down lean protein and vegetables with your time, which isn’t easy, so that’s all you think about. PowerCycle and lean protein. PowerCycle and lean protein. As if that’s the answer. And it’s never an hour earlier than 8 a.m. It just gets earlier and earlier. Until the only time you can find another hour earlier is the middle of the night.”

  “I wake up at 3 a.m.,” says the tired investment banker woman. Heads around the room nod in recognition.

  “Why are we fucking killing ourselves? Right, ladies? So our yoga pants don’t rupture a seam? For our husbands?”

  “Screw ’em!” says the investment banker.

  “Screw ’em,” shouts another tired-looking woman in her thirties.

  “Screw the man!” shouts SpongeBob. Everyone’s nodding in appreciation.

  But Uncontained Hair Heidi has a different look on her face. “Interesting. Very interesting.”

  I thought it would be embarrassing to admit to all these feelings, but instead I feel heard. I file my worksheets together and wait for her to move on to the next person. But instead she stays with me.

  “And now try turning that last sentence around.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, here at Life-Wise we say that there are no victims. Only vanquishers. When we fall victim, we are powerless to change things. Do you want to be a victim to your circumstances, Liz? Or a divine creator?”

  Suddenly, I realize this is not what I was expecting. Brie looks at me, poised for some apparent breakthrough that everyone else can see coming, but me.

  “Uh, a divine creator?”

  “Can you turn your sentence around to show how you created the events that have made you angry.” I didn’t create them. I hesitate. Alix did. “I’ll help you. Would you say that maybe you’ve been the bitchy, controlling woman trying to fake being something that you’re not?”

  “Uh. No. Not really.” Brie’s eyes fall. “America and the media are making it like this—not me,” I say, grasping and now embarrassed. “Like us children of the ’70s feel like we have be ’80s power women and ’50s housewives because of Pinterest and ’60s waifs and ’90s supermodels. AmIright?” Now, SpongeBob looks away.

  The leader looks as though she’s reevaluating her approach.

  “Liz, it’s a difficult concept to get, but the purpose isn’t to keep passing blame but taking responsibility for your actions,” Brie says. “Here, have a green juice.”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Lizzie, take the green juice.”

  I shake Brie away. “No, thanks. Excuse me. I’ve got to go to the bathroom.”

  She follows after me, coming into the washroom behind me. “Brie, I don’t want the goddamn green juice!”

  She looks taken aback. “Lizzie, I know that was rough, but do you know how huge that was? You did some major internal work today. That’s how it all starts. You’re having the breakthrough,” she says, a bit too wide-eyed for my liking.

  “Brie, this isn’t green juice. It’s Kool-Aid. You guys are all on crack. Life just happens. That’s it. As much as we’d all like to go around being ‘creators,’ we can’t control everything that happens to us. Some things are destined to be, whether we like them or not.”

  “Lizzie, that’s not how I see it anymore. This stuff works for me. It’s about letting go of all our bullshit stories and designing our lives.”

  “Brie, it’s all a marketing scam—a pyramid scheme to get vulnerable people to shell out money to start hawking this stuff to even bigger fools.”

  Brie looks hurt. A rare flash of anger passes through her usually warm brown eyes. I immediately feel bad. “Brie, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. I guess I see it differently. We don’t have control over everything that happens to us. Fate takes its course—and doesn’t always end in our favor.”

  “That’s not true,” she says. “We do have a choice in what happens to us.”

  “Well, then, I guess you think I brought all of this on myself.”

  Brie looks at me differently...not the usual supportive friend I’ve known for forever. “If we’re being honest, Lizzie. Yes. Yes, I do.”

  It’s not what I want, expect or need to hear. A moment of blind, dark rage overcomes me. “You have no fucking clue what it’s like to do the right thing for ten fucking years, and have nothing pan out like you thought it would. A job where they treat you like a subhuman because you haven’t reproduced, a lonely, empty apartment to come home to at night, and friends who talk about freezing their eggs behind your back and pass a shitload of judgment to your face!”

  “Liz, do you know how ungrateful you sound right now? Do you have any idea how much you’ve been given? The gifts you have? Rather than cursing the universe you should be shaking your hands up saying how thankful you are, you ungrateful, whiny bitch.”

  We both look taken aback.

  “
I have to get back in there.” She’s the first one to speak.

  “Okay.” I wait a few minutes, throw my juice in the trash and head out.

  As the elevator descends, I glance at my phone and see another text.

  Buckley, what’s up? You aren’t returning my texts now—that’s cold. Hope u are well J. It’s another one from Ryan.

  Want to know what’s cold? Pulling the football away like Lucy. Angrily, I delete his texts, then in a strange fit—most likely induced by sounds of the group huffing and chanting in a weird tribal way—most likely thanks to green juice and the collective anger of wounded women everywhere—I delete Ryan from my Facebook friends.

  July

  Seventeen

  PUSH! :) Notification! Week 24: You may wanna queue up some sad ‘flix...pregnancy hormones can affect tear production, causing waterworks...invest in some waterproof mascara, like this one from our friends at Bourjois-Jolie. Baby Smiles: 5!

  Days go by in a blur. I busy myself with work, getting home at a decent hour and sending out travel pitches and résumés to potential job leads as my “pregnancy advances,” through month six, and I even start writing my blog again.

  Spaces in between are all Ryan. But what can I do? He seemed to take this seriously, then super not seriously, then never apologized or followed up in any real way. And it doesn’t help that every single Instagram iced coffee post I’ve put up, he’s hearted. Every single one.

  By July 1, I decide enough is enough. Time to forget about him and get serious. Clean the slate. I bust out a new gerbera-pink maternity sheath, complete with jewels at the neckline, from Barneys’ in-house line. Thanks, Addison, I think, as I pull on the pretty dress. She’s been getting a load of new sponsorships—and I’ve been benefitting.

  Later in the day, Jeffry pulls me to the side. “Liz, I need to talk to you. You’re still coming back, right?”

  “Yes, of course,” I say.

  “Cynthia asked me to check in with you about it.”