Last October, my friend Debbie’s boyfriend Robert broke up with her.  They were together almost a year and one could say that the grounds for the breakup were predicated on his desire, at the age of fifty, to have a child.

Yes, they had much in common; yes, they had a wonderful sexual relationship. Unfortunately for Debbie, at the age of forty-seven, pregnancy was a remote possibility at best that had to be pursued immediately, possibly with the aid of costly fertility treatments.

Originally, this conversation came up the previous May when, after dating for several months, Debbie bravely pursued the line of questioning, “Where are we going with this relationship?” That’s when Robert brought up the “child” thing and that he saw this desire as an obstacle preventing him from ever thinking of her in the long term. Crushed, she booted him out and drowned her sorrows in more than a few Cosmopolitans.

A few weeks later, after Debbie emailed Robert to return her apartment keys, he called asking for another chance.  Their reunion seemed solid.  Every weekend was spent at his sister’s place in the Hamptons.  They planned to visit her family in California over the holidays; more than once, he proclaimed that he was tiring of being a bachelor.

As the tans of summer faded, I suppose so did Robert’s affections.  After spending a lovely weekend that included walking hand in hand in Central Park, while reading the Sunday Times, he looked up and said, “You don’t really think this is going anywhere, do you?”

In the words of Yogi Berra, “It was Déjà vu all over again.”  This time Debbie asked for her keys before she let the door hit him in the ass.

Of course, as her friend I was angry and sympathetic, but this incident was not the only reason I was unable to sleep.  So many other issues flooded my mind, and I don’t just mean the obvious, “Isn’t it unfair how men don’t have the same biological clock as women?”  What amazes me is how unbalanced the level of sensitivity is and how unforgiving society (not just the male portion) is to women.

After having cancer surgery fifteen years ago, I lost my ability to have children. Only thirty-one at the time, I felt I should have cards printed listing my name and title as “Barren-ness.”  It was my “duty” to let any prospective males know from the start that they were getting “damaged goods.”  I proceeded to attach myself to a misogynist who delighted in speaking of a day when he would “have a family.”

Yet, if the tables were turned and the man in my life could not impregnate me,  I could never demoralize him by breaking up with him or with a bittersweet tone, express to him my fantasy of what could have been.  (I don’t mean to imply that women should bottle up such feelings; we tend to share those confidences with our female friends and/or therapists.)

Recently, one of the television magazine shows reported how marriage is one of the leading causes of weight gain, with the piece pointing the finger at the overweight wife.  They interviewed several couples.  In all cases, the women had children, gained weight and could not get back to their pre-wedding weight.  The husbands gave them ultimatums; either lose the weight or lose your man.  None of the husbands felt they were speaking out of line by being so blatant.  By the way, none of these guys looked like the tuxedoed stud in their wedding photo.  Only one overweight husband was interviewed and he said that his wife was primarily concerned about his health.  Not only did she not give him an ultimatum, she wasn’t even interviewed on camera.

The endearing term, “love handles” is never used to describe a woman’s fat.  My response?  If I have to love your handles, you can love my fat ass. 

I guess the bottom line of this rant is that society has no problem critiquing women; we should accept our assessors’ comments graciously and take their suggestions with a smile.  However, the male ego is fragile and should not be trivialized.  The fact that the Nobel Prize was awarded to the three men who came up with Viagra is a clear indicator that male sexuality is regarded as the cornerstone for all sexuality.  I don’t think Margaret Sanger ever won an award (even posthumously).

When my friend Debbie thanked me for listening to her during this tough time, I looked up the word “fertility” in the dictionary where it states:

Fertility: “Producing or bearing fruit in great quantities; characterized by great resourcefulness or thought or imagination.”

There is nothing in the definition that limits fertility to being a loving, compassionate, nurturing mate or parent.  However, I can say with absolute confidence, that my friends and I are fertile or at the very least, working toward that end without the limitation of time-clocks.

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