Sans Baby

In case you’re wondering, not everyone who’s childfree is busy climbing corporate ladders, collecting cats, or searching for sperm donors. Some of us just find meaning in other endeavors. (Some bothered to write whole books about it.)

With 40 on the horizon, the idea of marriage doesn’t even compute. If the urge for munchkins ever manifests, it’ll be way too late to have them. And then, like the canines that came before, they’ll be adopted, which fits my sensibilities perfectly.

These are just a few of the demented musings that come to mind when I see bundles of other people’s joy.

Progress. We’re making very little. It’s nearly 2012 (thank jeebus) and we’re still clubbing baby seals. Clearly not a nice enough world to shove more people into.

Expectations. They won’t be met. Try as you might to produce respectable people, much of the outcome is arbitrary. In an effort to get it right, I’d over-schedule my offspring right into the nuthouse. (You’re welcome, egglets).

Curiosity. Bad for cats, worse for women. Grown-ups go batshit gaga over creating tiny self-replicas. It’s akin to being more excited about the dress than the marriage only, you know, way worse.

Religion. I like the Duggars—19 Kids With Manners & Counting—but if you think it’s a woman’s place to produce litters and never wear pants, you should probably stop reading this right now.

Poop. 3.5 tons of soiled nappy-nap headed to U.S. landfills this year. And next. And next. Euw.

Status Quo. Meh.

Behold the Human Tsunami (but by all means, shoot for test-tube quints)