On getting clock-blocked by nature
Amidst the nation's unstoppable baby bump fever, as two of my relatives go through pregnancies that, because they are in their mid- 30s, are no non-pregnant picnic, descriptions of these women's energy-depleted conditions are reported to me. And sometimes I receive the reports similarly to other family news items of suburban milestones that I am nowhere near attaining now, if ever; they arrive in my brain as bits of unintented indictment. Like, what have you accomplished? A marriage, a house, offspring? A promising boyfriend at least? Nope to all of the above, but I've totally interviewed a bunch of naked dudes!
So, hearing how draining and "risky" it is to be pregnant in one's mid-30s, it does make a single woman of 32 who isn't entirely opposed to eventually reproducing think. (Sorry, I know I'm not supposed to ever go there, commitment-phobe fellows who are cokane's main demographic! Actually, I'm not sorry. F U.) Whereas as a very young woman when I was least qualified mentally, financially, experientially, etc. to bring someone else into the world, my self-contained baby incubator was something like a penthouse in The Plaza for fetuses, with major gourmet room service, a hot tub, and a balcony overlooking the skyline with a pegasus flying in the sky with a unicorn; now it might be more like a Holiday Inn on Route 18 where the TV's a bit on the fritz, on its way to becoming a motel with small blood spots and unidentifiable stains on the bedcover. By the time I find that special someone (if ever) and have the financial stability to responsibly reproduce, and you know, no longer feel like having fun, my womb could very well be the equivalent of that sordid fleabag flophouse in the 1982 low-budge horror classic Basket Case. And I sure don't want no monster blob-in-a-basket baby when they are throwing away perfectly good Chinese girls in China.
In conclusion, pregnancy is gross. And, like, beautiful or whatever.
Labels: GIRL STUFF