The next perpetually single person in their 40s who whines at me that they thought they'd be married by now, then in the next breath qualifies it with "but I don't want someone with baggage" would be well advised to step back quietly, making no sudden movements so as not to antagonise me.
What this usually translates to is this: "I want the perfect man/woman for me to spring forth fully formed, with no children, exes or other demands on his/her time, yet have all the maturity and wisdom that goes with actually having had a life before now, to cater slavishly to my every whim.''
How does someone get to their 40s without baggage? Live in their mother's basement? Isn't that a profile for a serial killer?
It's true that many of us who have had less than pleasant experiences have some sorting out to do before venturing back into the dating pool. Nobody wants to sit through a tedious dinner with the woman who thinks all men are lying pigs because her ex was. It's also really unattractive to see a man crying into his latte because his ex-wife took half the house (yep, that's the law). Meditate, read some self-help books, drink and cry on your long-suffering friends, do a Cheryl Strayed and bugger off into the wild to find yourself for Christ's sake, before you inflict your emotional wounds on some poor unsuspecting 40-something who has screwed up their courage and eschewed a night in comfy track pants watching Graham Norton to socialise with you. I'm just sayin'.
But really, is having been through some crap worse than getting to your 40s a baggage-free zone? What the freaking hell have those people been doing? Just how flexible, kind and caring do you think a man or woman over 40 who has never lived with anyone is going to be with you?
Someone who has children has, at some stage, been selfless. You bloody have to be. It's also a lifelong gig, so regardless of their current marital status, they were willing to have a crack at a commitment.
I don't see children as baggage. Small money vacuums, yes, and you would be well advised to accept that before diving in.
It is also true that they restrict your life a bit. OK, a lot. They're the human equivalent of a home detention sentence. No spontaneous mini breaks on an hour's notice or sudden decisions to catch a movie and definitely no sex on the kitchen table (if you don't get sprung by wide-eyed offspring, you'll get stabbed in the arse by a piece of Lego).
Many people consciously choose not to have children. I've got no issue with that. Hell, on a bad day I'm jealous of their travel, fingerprint-free granite bench tops and kids' television free Sunday mornings. But an equal number seem to have reached their 40s childless without actually planning it that way, then can't seem to accept that their dream partner didn't wait around for them and actually had the nerve to breed with someone else. Guess what? Grownups reproduce.
"Oh, but I wanted my OWN children and no half siblings, no steps" they whine. "It's messy." Yep. You can afford to be picky at this stage of your life (you can't see it, but I'm typing in a sarcastic tone. You'll have to use your imagination). That person with the kids has already demonstrated a willingness to be a parent (and the necessary sperm/egg count).
Step kids can be a pain in the backside. So can your own. Step kids can also be a wondrous source of joy. They're just small humans, they aren't that hard to love.
If you're consciously aiming for a childless life, good for you, and move on, I'm not talking to you.
If you're still clinging to the fantasy after 40 that things will be like they were for your friends who married in their 20s, let me be the one to dump cold water on that. It was possible at 25 to meet someone with no past. To marry in a blaze of white, rose petals and questionable wedding photography and create your own baggage together.
After age 40, the baggage-free person may have been in jail. Read The Rosie Project. Either that or they're waiting for some ideal of perfection they've conjured up -- and I doubt it's you, because the person usually doesn't exist.
Accept the glorious messes and stuff ups that are an inevitable part of having actually lived. You could miss something really great otherwise. Is having lived and loved really baggage? I prefer to see it a bit like that Christmas gift that takes you by surprise -- the one that is untidily wrapped, slapped together with sticky tape and bearing a card containing terrible grammar and appalling spelling -- and when you open it, it's the thing you never knew you wanted. And that card finishes with the words "Love, me."