A couple of weeks ago, I visited my gynecologist.
Per usual, she cheerfully entered the room.
“HI, LESLIE! So! Any relationships this year?” she asked, as she briefly reviewed my chart.
“Oh! Oh, no. No, no, no…nope. No relationships,” I responded, shifting my sit bones on the noisy paper lining the table.
I racked my brain for a moment and felt slightly panicked. I couldn’t remember the last time I had been asked out. March? April? Did an extensive, yet fairly innocent make out session with a tall, well-built, sexy Australian I met at a NYC film premiere count as a date?
No. No, it didn’t, although he did offer to fly me to Vegas for the weekend to “hang out and see some shows.” I actually considered it. Christianity/morality/self-respect aside, a weekend of hot, wild, noncommittal sex sounded pretty tempting.
Knowing my heart, however, I quickly decided against it.
Cheery Doc’s lips twisted in sympathy. “Well, I’m sorry. The good news is, no STD testing for you!”
I tightened my grin, and my knees.
“Yep! Trying to quit! Heh, heh, heh!” The sweat underneath my arms started to soak into my powder-blue, paper gown.
Doc nodded, knowingly. I changed the subject.
“So, my birthday is coming up in a couple of weeks!” I announced. “Guess it’s time to find a baby daddy,” I chuckled.
“How old are you going to be?” She asked.
“Well, Leslie, you might want to consider freezing your eggs at this point, just to be on the safe side. I’ve got a great recommendation for an infertility doctor.”
I felt the blood rushing to my head. Freeze my eggs? Infertility? What?! Wait a minute. I’m healthy. I can still have kids, right? I have to find a decent date, first!
And then, for a brief moment, familiar anger at X welled up.
I wasted good years of my life with that guy. I didn’t choose this. I didn’t choose this. I DIDN’T CHOOSE THIS!!!
The moment passed, as I reminded myself how grateful I am to be completely free of X. I squeezed my eyes tight and thanked God for sparing the world one more fucked up product of divorce.
God knows. He is good.
There was no more mention of infertility, frozen eggs or STD testing after that. We chatted about the blog-turned-book, my new life in New York, and Doc did her thing.
“Everything looks beautiful!” She exuberantly informed me. “Happy Birthday!”
As irony would have it, I left my doctor’s office with a six-month supply of birth control, and the name and number of the infertility doctor.
Tomorrow I turn 36 years old.
Thinking back on the past four years of my life – the ones with the greatest suffering, pain, weeping, grace, growth, adventure and ultimate joy – I am not at all where I thought I was going to be.
I’m exactly where I should be.
I never imagined I’d live out of two small suitcases or not have a place to call my own for an entire year. I have never made this little money in my life, in an attempt to pursue my dreams. Haughtily, I figured I would have met an amazing man and be taken off the market by now. I didn’t even plan on spending the summer in California, but if I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have recorded an album at Capitol Records.
It took pain and suffering, and a huge leap of faith to get there, but I am finally starting to see just a glimpse of what God wants to do with my life. Things are falling into place.
This year – 36 – will see my book, The Christian Girl’s Guide to Divorce, published and on bookshelves. An album with Louis Prima, Jr., where I am the featured vocalist (not just a backup singer!), will hit the charts. I will tour with Prima and Setzer.
Best of all, a week from tomorrow, I will board a plane back to my beloved New York just in time for the most beautiful season of the year (and the only one I haven’t yet experienced): fall.
At 36, I don’t think of myself as divorced anymore. I’m single. I’ve got a way to go, too. I still need a place to live. I still need work. I still need to make more money to really be able to support myself. I don’t have it all figured out.
It’s okay, though. God’s taking care of me.
And I’ve never been happier.