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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required When young Marnie was known by most for beauty few could match, by looks alone many declared the woman was a catch. And like most girls who are so blessed, she knew just what she had, knew what she could get away with by making men feel glad. Marnie spent most of her twenties having fun playing the field, one man after another, yes, she felt no need to yield. She was an empowered woman living in modern times, why shouldn’t she go have some fun and see what she could find? Her hook-ups were just simple things, not men she would call ‘dear,’ besides, she had not time for that in her fast-paced career. There were times near her thirties when she thought she might change, but saw her sister mobbed by kids, and that just seemed deranged. Give up champagne and city-life for Walmart and screaming kids? Her sister must be stupid to chose doing what she did. She had no room for such a life in her apartment small, and it wasn’t feminist to answer motherhood’s call. And so her fun continued on into her early thirties, she still had fun taking home guys, though not quite as many. It was harder to get noticed when she went out to bars, until at thirty-four she found a stud they called Omar. He was a year of two younger, and had a high-pay job, she figured she could tie him down, leave other women robbed. But whenever she brought up long-term, he would shy away, and much as she tried with her charms, he decided not to stay. Then Marnie sat, at thirty-six, and felt a creeping fear, she felt the clock ticking away, with marriage nowhere near. Her dating became more frantic with the passage of time, she’d settle for a decent man, but nowhere cold she find a fellow who would marry her, she just seemed out of luck, and by the time she reached forty she had just given up. For a year of two after she wallowed in misery, and when she looked to her old friends, everywhere she could see children in their early teens, and families running deep. The sight of it struck at her soul, and cost her lots of sleep. And despite all that she felt, it still took a while for her even to think she may have wanted a child. But by then it was much too late to think about such things, the thought of what she missed out on now left her despairing. She had forty more years of life, now doomed to walk alone, she’d always though herself quite smart, so how had she not known? Jane Austen had written novels about this very fear, about tying down a good man before the fade of years. CONTINUES...
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