I Can Barely Take Care of Myself, Jen Kirkman [the false prince txt] 📗

I can’t imagine dreaming of wanting to be a singer, meeting my idol, and getting her words of encouragement—and then getting married, having kids, and touring the blue-hair circuit. Luckily, my mom raised me using Patti Page’s insight “You can be anything you want to be,” and not “You can be anything you want to be but it probably won’t work out that way” or “You can be anything you want to be but also please still make time to be a mother and wife.”

Some of her friends have accused her of living vicariously through my show business life. I don’t see it that way. She’s definitely not a stage mother. My mom just always knew how much my career meant to me and she’s a realist. She doesn’t just blindly say, “You can have it all!”

Life is like a closet full of clothes—you can have it all, but it doesn’t mean that you should. I can wear four cardigan sweaters all at once with a pair of sweatpants over my jeans—but it doesn’t mean that I should.

I credit my mom with giving me the delusional level of confidence I needed to think that I could actually make a living in show business. For example, she resented that in order to get accepted as a theater major at Emerson, I had to audition. She walked into the dean’s office, VHS tape in hand, and said, “Here is a tape of Jennifah. She played Bonnie in Anything Goes in the high school musical. She can tap-dance, act, and sing and you want her to do two contrasting monologues for you to get into this college?”

To be fair, I don’t think my mom’s unrealized dreams of becoming a singer plagued her the way that I have to assume I’d be plagued if I weren’t earning a living and continuing to pursue a life in the world of comedy. Back in my mom’s world, in Massachusetts in 1950-something, you could have a dream but you understood your reality, which was that the nice guy named Ronnie from high school wanted to marry you and your father approved of him and so you went to secretarial school during the engagement. Once married, it was time to start making those babies. It’s amazing to me that my parents have been married for over fifty years. They were high school sweethearts. I was raised by two people who, because they were getting along so well in homeroom, decided to get married and make other people.

If I’d married my high school sweetheart—well, there was more than one—but if I’d married the one who inspired me to write poems in my diary, I’d now be living with him in his mom’s basement. (Before you judge, he does have a job and he pays his mom rent. So he’s got one foot in the real world and he’s now bald—which gives him the appearance of being very wise.)

Anyway, pretty soon someone else besides my mom started to sneak around my comedy shows. Blake was back. I think he was mostly curious that I hadn’t called him in months, begging him to leave Anne in her attic and come back to me. We had one last one-night stand after one of my gigs. He was a college graduate at this point and he was even paying for his own tuna fish. He told me he wanted to move somewhere like Los Angeles to become an actor but he also wanted to retire young, move back to Boston to live near his family, be a sports announcer for the Red Sox, and . . . have kids. I felt uncomfortable in Blake’s bed after he said that—and that wasn’t just because his worn-out futon mattress made me feel like I was sleeping on the bench of a dry sauna. Some instinct was rolling around inside of me—I didn’t want to be the woman to give Blake children.

I remembered that when we were dating, Blake would call his three-year-old nephew and talk to him like he was an adult. He’d ask, “Hey, buddy, are you lookin’ smooth today?” It always seemed so foreign to me that Blake was so good with children. It made me uncomfortable. I told one of my girlfriends about it at the time and she laughed and said, “Jen, you should be so happy that he’s going to be a good father!” Then she armchair-analyzed me and said that I was just jealous of the attention that Blake was giving his nephew, that we were newly in love and I wanted him all to myself.

I was so attracted to my feathered-haired ex-boyfriend that I was tempted to beg him to get back together with me. But I could not unknow what I knew. He wanted different things for his future than I did. Blake didn’t seem like such a free spirit to me anymore. The guy who rolled over in the morning and relit a joint before breakfast . . . wanted to be a father? And he was already sure of that? I tried to picture myself pregnant in our kitchen together. I had no ability to envision a future where it even seemed possible that I’d want a baby. It made me want to cross my legs and board up my vagina.

I mourned Blake for months but I stuck with the comedy. Eventually things started looking up. After twenty-two years, my mom finally let me install my very own private landline with a separate phone number in my bedroom. There was nothing to eavesdrop on anymore—I was letting it all hang out and doing just what Patti Page had advised. I was being whatever I wanted to be. And let me tell you, the other silver lining is that for a girl who doesn’t want babies, living with your parents in your early twenties is the best free birth control around.

2. Misadventures in Babysitting

Most of my friends who have kids insist that they won’t