As everyone continues to get married and have kids, I start to feel like the kid who isn’t getting picked for baseball in P.E.

Except I hate baseball.

And why do we have to have P.E. anyway?

Thing is, I’m envious. But not that they’re married and not that they’re starting families. I’m envious that they want that stuff. That, and I feel like I’d better appreciate their trips to Cabo as a single chick. So they should donate the tickets to me and prepare for their little bundle of why that’s on its way.

All these things normal people do sound great – for them.

Wish I had that. Totally.

amused

But where does that desire come from?

Sharing my space and splitting my bed in half seems ridiculous – and I just mean for a few days. I can’t fathom what that’s like on a regular basis. Granted, I know I’ve done it before, but I also recall being very, very bad at it.

One of two things happen in a long term relache. Either the honeymoon phase dies out (AKA boredom) and someone cheats, or you try to keep it alive which morphs into a gag reel of forced fornication, suppressing bodily functions, and then taking out said gaseous compressions on the other person for the next few years.

Then one day when you realize you’re just as emotionally constipated as your actual bowel organs are, you unexpectedly hear yourself scream out “I want you gone and my keys back, asshole!” in the middle of angry sex.

Instead of the usual stuff.

And then you try to play it off.

intercourse

My mom always used to call it the biological clock.

She said, “I just woke up one day and wanted a baby.”

Yeah, I keep waiting for that thing to kick in.

But mine keeps trying to go backward, trip over future tasks, or focus on the infinite present. The bio-ticker obviously has no countdown timer to craving fleshy cradle stuffing (is that where the New Year’s Baby concept came from?) but it’s slightly like a synchronized swim watch – similar to what PMS sisters have; in a work setting, conception often sets off a domino effect.

That aside, from what I’ve heard, there’s no real warning.

Bitches just wake up one day with hungry wombs and seek out co-creators like a scrotal casting agent.

And while that person would have to be me with a peen, it’s safe to say my chances of encountering a D rockin doppelganger are about as good as that mysterious maternal magnet bewitching my ovaries while I sleep. Because I’m not feelin’ it, man.

Keep away from me, clone!

You too, cruel uteral sandman!

oldmaid