a.k.a. I Broke My Biological Clock Writing This
Although I have not a bit of “scientific evidence” to back up the following claim, I am going to make it anyway.
There comes a point in EVERY young woman’s life: (READ: young woman: ages 25-29), in which she makes a decision. One which she is so adamant about, that no amount of coercion, bargaining, or begging can change. The decision to become a mother.
Now let me clarify, this is not the “oh shit I am not sick from the clams and tequila last night! There is actually something growing inside me” moment. No, no my friends, this is the time when those cute, cuddly, poop machines start popping up more than Heidi Fleiss’s latest herpes outbreak.
You literally role out of bed and EVERYONE (including the neighbor’s dog) is breeding! You question the water. “Is something literally in the water? Should I switch to straight scotch in the morning?”
It is easy to resist at first. Let’s face it, your friends have not looked this tired and mentally unstable since freshman year of college, when the only thing of nutritional value any of you were consuming was orange juice. (And for the record orange juice does not increase your high).
After a few months of seeing the breeders tote their little “mini-me’s” around, you begin to wonder, “Should I be allowing a little creature to suck the life out of me as well?”
You suddenly realize that in your eyes, pregnant women are no longer, bloated, complaining, puke machines; they have morphed into beautiful, sexy, humans with super powers. And you start to wonder, “Why don’t you have super power?”
The months go on, and the fantasy remains. You have even picked out names for your yet to be conceived, unborn, bank account sucking, spawn. Then that special day arrives. YOU ARE LATE.
You realize that the menstrual party is one party you ALWAYS like to be on time for. The panic sets in. Then the pleading and the bargaining with whatever higher power controls your uterus. MAKE ME BLEED DAMNIT.
After a week of traumatic thoughts in which you decide in fact you would be an AWFUL parent, based solely on the fact that you have $17.00 in your bank account and you’d rather spend it at the bar then on diapers. Aunt Flow arrives.
After you celebrate with a massive shot of tequila, you realize, that you were just kidding with all those fantasies, and like AA, babies are for quitters.