I have hit that point in my life where I have become part of the minority. I'm not talking race or gender or sexual orientation...I'm talking something far, far worse.
I'm talking babies.
This year of newly found singleness has been ridiculous. I have like seven friends with kids when last year I just had, like, one.
I thought it was bad enough that I was now one of the 'single females' of the world. Part of the cat-sitting, puppy-watching brigade that is called upon by pet-owner friends to baby-sit their tiny mammals because, ostensibly, we don't have anything better to do with our time. (FYI: I'm not knocking being a free pet sitter, but apparently it's like blood in the water: your friends scent your single-y, female-ness as if they were in possession of shark-like powers.)
But then it got tougher. My friends started to 'seriously' pair off and then - horror! - get married. I felt like a wallflower at the Homecoming Dance, sitting on the bleachers in my orthodontic headgear, hoping someone would take pity on me and ask me to dance.
But no one did.
So I sucked it up and set out to just embrace my singleness. This included working, enjoying time with my (quickly dwindling pool of) single girlfriends and gay, male friends, working, working some more and eating out...a lot. And when I was finally getting used to being the third or fifth or seventh wheel at dinner parties, those married bitches went and did something far worse then ask me to pet sit during the holiday season or try to set me up with inappropriate, single men their husbands knew from work.
They had babies!!
I can't escape them. They are everywhere. And believe me when I tell you that they are taking over the world one live birth at a time.
I went to a Holiday Party last night - thrown by two friends that I adore - but I knew I was in for it when the babies in attendance almost outnumbered the adults. Now, of course, I'm exaggerating - there weren't THAT many babies - but, goddamnit, there really was a whole lot of nursing going on. I found myself starting to crave a milkshake instead of the previously yummy-looking Christmas cookies I'd already put on my plate... and it was frightening. As the night wore on, I became THAT girl, the one catering to the babies, goo-gooing at them, holding them.
I felt my ovaries contract in envy and it made me nauseous.
Now - just on general principle - I've never been a huge fan of parties, but baby parties are even more unsettling. They are bastions of ambivalence: on one hand I am resentful that there are babies there, but, on the other hand, I'm resentful that I don't have my own doula/stroller/burpcloth/carseat/baby.
It's very confusing.
And the lack of single, available guys at a baby party is pathetic...you just find yourself at the mercy of horny, divorced dads who only like you because your car doesn't have a car seat in it.
I'm not sure where I'm going with this post, but I guess I can sum it all up with one word:
I'm for it.