Divorced Before 30

“Oh, shit,” I thought, as I read the latest e-mail from Josh. My friend-turned-love-interest wasn’t feeling well, and he didn’t think it was a good idea to get together that night after all. So although he didn’t pick up the phone, he essentially called in sick for our first official date. I’d waited a week to see if last Tuesday had held the significance I thought it did, and now, it seemed, he was freaking out.

Was my divorce too scary? Was the pressure of going from friends to more too great? I wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt. After all, maybe he was really sick.

“How sick would I have to be,” I wondered, “before I’d bail on this date?” Pretty damn sick. But I thought I should get a second opinion, and this was one of the benefits of living in my parents’ basement.

“MOM!” I hollered. She appeared in the doorway of my office, which until recently had served as a giant hope chest for grandchildren, and specifically, for yet-to-be-conceived girls. Tiny dresses with matching underpants still hung in a neat row in the closet, and a crib was set up next to my desk for my nephew’s future visits.

“He says he’s sick and needs to postpone the date,” I said, baiting her with the truth. I looked her straight in the eyes as she processed this development. Now, she didn’t say it, because my mom is too nice, but what she was thinking was, “oh, shit,” because it was written all over her face.