I’d like to call a press conference please. Something has gone awry. A massive assault has moved into my life, and possibly yours, and I believe it to be poisoning the minds of young women everywhere. Something needs to be said before it’s too late: There has been a baby attack.
Everyone in my frickin’ world is pregnant. With child. Preggers.
I understand this to be the age of child bearing. I experienced a baby boom in my early twenties with those friends & colleagues who married young. While happy for their impending joy, the whole ordeal felt more like watching a movie. I mean, seriously, I was nowhere near ready to have a child then. Thus, the irrelevancy of the boom left me largely unaffected. Protected.
But now, well, I guess biologically this is something I should be thinking about. My sister, my cousin, my other cousin, my friends’ sisters, my co-workers sister-in-law, the 4 friends who got married last summer, the server at the bar- literally, it’s an epidemic. I’m starting to get convinced that I’ll be pregnant too, like I’m catching it like the flu, but it’s quite impossible. Non-applicable. Yet here I am, standing in the middle of the ultrasound-baby names-are you finding out the sex-such & such weeks along-midwife-organic whatever-Jessica Alba girdle- whirlwind with nothing at all to dip my toes into inclusion. Apparently I have the vaccine, because this target isn’t going to be pregnant anytime soon. I’m like more steps away from pregnancy than an alcoholic’s steps to recovery.
So, what do I do to survive?
I don’t think the government is going to take action to be quite frank. In fact, they may have released the baby making hypnotic gasses into the air to insert optimism and cheer via cooing into our 2nd Great Depression (hmm, I may have a conspiracy theory in the works). Hence, I’ll put my gas mask on and walk within the crowd. I’ll just keep that thing secured tight.