30 and Unwed: A Latina Mother’s Nightmare
At 30, I have accepted that my life is not even close to what I thought it would be. In my younger years, I imagined at 30 I would have been in the midst of traveling, settling down with a husband and our eight children, and working as a writer, Carrie Bradshaw style. Maybe I would be solving crime too but let’s not get ahead of ourselves.
For many years this had been my fantasy. Thirty, flirty, and thriving. However, my reality has slightly differed from my fantasy.
My reality of 30:
- At 30 I am managing a job in social work that is so dull, the intensifying boredom has caused me to wonder whether I am undergoing some sort of social test in the Matrix with the hypothesis: We believe the Latina participant will stab herself in the eye with an ergonomic pen within 90 days.
- At 30, the only traveling I have done has been around big cities in the United States to serve my impending alcoholism and a dozen Jack-In-The-Box’s around southern California to serve my voracious food addiction.
- At 30, I don’t have children but I have come close. (Click here if you’d like to be bummed out.)
- And at 30, I am single with a barrage of date stories — so many I could probably submit seven stories a month to the L.A. Times dating section and still not be done by the end of 2022.
Whenever I date someone that’s traveled the world, they will enchant me with a magical story such as the time they visited the Sistine Chapel at Vatican City and drooled in awe at its wondrous beauty.
I then respond with:
“I’m not very good at travel tales. Can I interest you in a comical date story?”
By the way, if sexual experiences were measured with the same token of success as employment and traveling, I might be looked upon like I was Jeff Bezos himself. (It’s a joke, ma.)
In my opinion, an evil villain made 30 the final marker in life to accomplish everything before settling down. Sometimes I wonder if it was Latin mothers.