I’m about to turn 31. I want to preface this with I’m not one of those women who freaks out about getting older. Not at all. I mean, sure, I’m human, I’m not necessarily looking forward to hip replacements, but saggy, wrinkly jowls don’t scare me. That much. It might almost be comforting because by the time I have saggy, wrinkly jowls, I won’t give two shits if I have flat abs or not. Pressure’s off, hello an extra side of bacon.
But right now I find myself right smack dab in the middle of Scrutinyland and I’d like a one-way ticket out of here, por favor.
This really started when I graduated from college and decided not to go to a stereotypical graduate school. “You got an English degree? Well what the hell are you going to do with that?” I don’t know, live for a little while? After moving to San Francisco and then to Los Angeles, still with no plans of going to law school or getting my masters in teaching, as suggested, the dogmatic questions really amped up. I’m sure many of you in this same boat have heard them; my favorite and most frequently asked being, “What’s your back-up plan?” (Side-note: my parents have never asked these questions. I just want to give them a shout-out—you guys rule.)
But everything shifted dramatically at mid-night the day I turned 30. Apparently I’m now in dire baby-making age, my eggs are about to rot and I’m nearing the point of being one of those “weird” women who doesn’t want to squirt out kids. ESPECIALLY since I’m in a long-term relationship—it’s like I’m totally fucking nuts that I’m not dragging Jon to Tiffany’s to look at rings and picking out baby names. Now the questions go something like this: “Sooooo, you’re gonna get married, right?” and “Of COURSE you want kids…right?” Followed by looks of, “Oh this poor thing is just so lost. She just needs a diamond and a toddler and she’ll be fulfilled.”
I want to clarify: it doesn’t bother me when my friends ask, “Yo bitch, you two gonna have kids or what?” They’re my friends; that’s what friends do. But it’s when people (who are generally older and/or don’t know me at all) constantly put their bullshit ideas of what makes every living female worth while or not onto my lap. That’s when I get irritated enough to write about it. As aspiring artists, we get a lifetime of judgments; it’s just something we have to deal with, but I’d like to give a whoop-whoop for all the ladies out there who either don’t have kids or don’t know if they want kids or not. Hell, for the dudes too, but it seems that us ladies get the full-throttle storm of societal pressures in this category. Especially when we reach our 30s.
So I want to set the record straight: I don’t know if I want kids or not. Maybe I will at some point, but right now I sure as hell don’t. And no, I don’t find them particularly cute. I’m not saying that to be funny, I mean it. There are children in my life who I love and I do find adorable, but they are my godchildren and/or kids of my friends. And they have good manners. But if I’m walking down the street and there’s a little kid who wants to talk to me or give me her lollypop or some shit, I’m going to pretend I don’t see her and walk on by. Yep, that’s right. For the exception of my friends’ kids, I avoid children at all cost. I just find them rather annoying. Especially when they start to talk. Oh god, say something interesting for once in your life, kid; that story is terrible. Learn how to edit.
I don’t want to play with them (boooring), I don’t want to talk to them (even worse), and I certainly don’t want to touch them (guh-ross). So do I really sound like Mommy potential? And I know, I know, I know, “If it’s yours, you’ll love it.” I’m not disputing that argument. I used to think dogs were smelly, subservient bores, but now I have Snoots N Toots and I’m totally in love with her. But there’s a pretty big difference between adopting a 30 lb. toot machine and carrying a kid around in my body for 9 months, ejecting it out of my vagina and then devoting my life to raising it. Agreed?
To be continued…
