I feel like said fantasies are pretty par for the course for my gender, age group and other demographic qualifications like geographic location. But here's the thing y'all. I daydream about being pregnant and having babies WAY more than I even think about getting married or being married or anything at all to do with marriage. It's not that I don't want to be married, because I totally do and I most definitely, assuredly, absolutely do not want to go about the having of the babies part without the getting married part happening first. The sequence of those events is kind of
I feel like some of this imbalance in the ever-more-by-the-day anti-feminist musings of the inner crevices of my mind can be blamed on the fact that babies are ALWAYS up in your face. When was the last time you walked out of your house, unprepared and unawares, and stumbled upon some lady in a wedding gown and a group of weepy bridesmaids on your front sidewalk? Unless you live across the street from some type of public garden or interesting water feature I'm going to wager the answer is NEVER. Never times has that happened to you.
But how many times do you run into babies? Or pregnant women? Or PREGNANT WOMEN WITH BABIES? How many times? Almost daily. There they are, those damn babies, all up in my face making me want them. And pre-maritally! FOR SHAME.
Let's juxtapose the cute fat little balls of fleshy wrinkly NOM NOM NOM that I just want to put in my purse and kidnap with the activity that I undertook last night: thank you note writing.
This is related. Stay with me.
I am a firm believer in a good thank you note, do not get me wrong. I don't think I need to remind you for the 47th time that my mama did, in fact, teach me how to act. The thank you notes I was writing last night were for the recent charity golf tournament that my sorority alumnae association puts on every year. Three sisters split the load of cards that needed writing, and by card number 25 I would have sooner signed myself up for a diagnostic colonoscopy than agree to write one more WORD, one single solitary letter on any piece of stationery, even if it was a thank you note for my recent millions and billions of dollars in lottery winnings. No sir, no m'am.
(Still related, I promise. Just keep with me.)
Once I finished my last card and sealed the envelope, I set it on the towering stack and thought to myself, "Just wait til you get married! Think of the thank you notes! Think how they'll each have to be personal and different and there will be THOUSANDS OF THEM and you will surely die from paper cuts and carpal tunnel! JUST THINK!"
And with that thought, with my wrists and fingers aching, I headed to bed, where I curled up with my copy of Jill Connor Browne's The Sweet Potato Queens' Guide to Raising Children for Fun and Profit. And laughed out loud reading stories about fat wrinkly Michelin Man looking babies.
Mixed in, inevitably, with plenty of tales about how those babies' mamas never should have married their idiot daddies in the first place.
See!?
cheers,
elizabeth
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