New Girl is one of the shows that got me through my pregnancy. It felt like it was me, Zooey, and the gang of guys against the rest of my problems, particularly my husband. I felt like he was never there for me. Watching rom coms or people in love kind of validated the romance that didn’t exist between us, highlighted his problems and why he wasn’t a good husband. I felt validated, like there was a handful of women in romantic comedies, in more ridiculous situations than mine, who understood and knew what was happening. I looked forward to those nights and hated them at the same time, the bitterness, the slow realization that whatever happened, whatever I did, it wouldn’t change who I was married to and all their problems were solved at the end of the 2 hours while mine were still there, still hanging on, 2 years later. I wanted to wrap my life up into a Hollywood plastic wrap, brand it with the name of the game, put a Warner Bros. logo or whatever in front of the title card, shorten my life, my problems, hilariously. I would only show the good parts, the parts that would make people laugh. I’d put some funny music so people would know what was funny… my ex crying when I tried to break up with him, then proposing. That would be funny with a laugh track. People should laugh when something ridiculous like that happens. They’d laugh when my stalker chased me down a mountain, talking about ghosts who looked like fur trappers and evil spirits stalking the old fort that was only put there a few decades ago, not long enough to gather any really scary ghosts, the kind that hate technology with a passion only rivaled by your grandma. It’d be funny to see me marrying a guy I only just met. There’d be a montage of me telling people on my mission that I was never going to get married, then a montage of them telling me that I was, within a year even. Then it’d cut to my wedding day. It’d skip over the awkward feelings between my husband and me, the weird first date that wasn’t a date, the jealousy, the indifference, the way he’d ignore me for his friends, the way he’d physically use me. It’d show a handful of arguments where either one of us could be right, just to keep the bias. There’d be a nice shot of both of us on the therapist’s couch, afraid to touch each other and ourselves, afraid to reach out and make a connection with anything, even the open and empty chasm within ourselves. Our kids would grow up, he’d say he was sorry, I’d trip over something and be clutzy and cute, a little odd, more like Zooey in New Girl and he’d be my Nick Miller, this grumpy guy who wouldn’t grow up. I don’t want to be Jess though… I don’t want to stray away from the path of adulthood. I want the coasters and the leather chair, the fireplace and Japanese bidet. I want to wake up in the morning to the smell of a clean house. I want to be successful by myself and keep the mistakes I made along the way to a minimum, a short clip of funny anecdotes I can share on a first date, or mention the burn mark on the wall as that one funny time I got ticked at a corporate sponsor and threw a scented candle at a clock that now sits in storage, covered in Tropical Sunrise. He’d laugh because he wasn’t there to feel the angry tension that led up to it and the tears afterward. After all, I looked ridiculous. Instead of perfecting myself, I got an angry husband and a grabby baby, a baby who won’t let me be alone. He’s a baby who needs constant reassurance, just like his father. I spend my energy being there for him and cleaning, because that’s what his mom wants and maybe I want it too. I want a clean house with book shelves, a house that looks put together. I want to wake up in the morning with a regular smell, not the odor of the last 2 days of sweat stuck to me… and it’s not even mine. I want time to shave, to go to work, to knit, to do something other than watch Netflix because I can’t move otherwise the baby will wake up and he needs a nap in order to function, even if he doesn’t think so. I wanted… my life to be more worldly because at least the world comes with a manual. At least the world tells you how to achieve success, with this job and that money and this purchase and that degree of freedom… it’s great. Honestly. I looked forward to a life dictated by the world. Now I struggle to find the spiritual meaning in a poopy diaper that the baby spent all night in, the yellow streaks on the thighs, my night shirt and sheets that I have to change… I have to find God in all of this, in the grabby baby, the inattentive husband who would never cheat on me with anything less alive than a laptop or his phone… sucked in by facts and figures and Europe. He sleeps with technology, with Redwall, with British voices telling stories while I whisper good night to myself and hold myself close for a minute, trying to remember I mean something to him and to me.
