Better Never Than Late

I did it all late. Dating: late, to the extent that sitting against an amp on a never-vacuumed floor listening to a guy you might like but probably don’t, and his three friends try to “make it” as a band counts as a date. First kiss: 20. Lost my virginity: 23 or was it 24? It wasn’t much of a loss at that point. I was a of couple years away from putting it on the curb with a FREE sign loosely taped to it. I’m still late. Starting out my 30s: no husband, no house, no kids. I do have a car, and a pet rabbit. I text my mom pictures of Sneaker and she feigns interest while thinking “that’s no grandchild,” even though he’s cuter than most babies. Occasionally, she politely asks about him, but he isn’t moving from liquid to solid foods or discovering object permanence, so the update is brief: he hopped today.

Three months ago, I started a new job. With a new job comes new people with the standard get-to-know-ya questions.

“Where are you from?” California.

“Why did you move here?” (good question) Boyfriend.

“Any kids?” Not that I know of.

I still feel too young to have children. I still panic when my period is late and wonder how I’m going to tell my mom. A cake. I’d bake her a cake, with a tiny baby figurine inside. A King Cake of sorts, announcing a less festive event than Mardi Gras, with fewer beads but just as much booze.

One month ago, I broke up with my boyfriend, an announcement I did not want to make at my new job to my new co-workers, through cake or any other medium. So I didn’t. I figured I could pull off this ruse for a few months at least. But I broke character.

After a meeting discussing staffing issues my boss asked, “Doesn’t your boyfriend work a normal Monday through Friday job?” He wanted him to work a farmer’s market stand for the bakery on a Saturday. He had called him my husband since I got hired because maybe there isn’t a word for “boyfriend” in Swiss or maybe he isn’t comfortable with me living in sin. I corrected him repeatedly, but he never changed his word choice. Today brought two points of correction.

“He’s not my husband. And we broke up.” At least he was right about his job schedule.

Somehow my boss managed to turn my break up into a divorce. And suddenly I’m not late anymore. Divorced, 33, mother of one (rabbit). Although, if that was a divorce, I should have taken a lot more from the apartment.

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