I Can Barely Take Care of Myself

other areas of life and I know that bringing a kid with you into a store with shelves full of goodies turns the simple task of ordering a coffee into an ordeal worthy of rebuilding a community after a devastating hurricane. It involves a lot of bending over, picking things up, and putting them back in their place (reason no. 425 that I don’t want kids). The mom turned to me and said, “I’m sorry.” I said, “Oh, it’s okay.” And then I added, “Being a couple of minutes late for work is worth it for some coffee.” I don’t know why I said that. I was trying to be funny in that “Hey, we’re making jokes about work and coffee” way.

I immediately went into damage control and sputtered, “I didn’t mean—”

She cut me off with a look of vague disgust and said, “You don’t have kids, do you?” I shook my head no, like I was a toddler who knew I was in trouble and about to get scolded. With a little sneer she said, “It must be nice not having to be responsible for anyone.”

Admittedly, I had been silently judging this mom for asking her toddler what she wanted instead of just ordering something, not to mention for her fifteen-hundred-dollar stroller that was more expensive than the first car I drove when I got to L.A. Then I remembered that when I was that girl’s age, I sat in my dad’s lap and watched TV with him while he puffed on Marlboro Reds. He’d let me play with the smoke swirls. I grew up in the 1970s, before raising kids was thought of as a series of “teachable moments.” I’m well aware that I don’t know the first thing about how to parent a toddler, but it did seem kind of selfish of this mom to hold up the ever-increasing line.

Once she left Starbucks the guy behind me said, “Hey, we’re putting money into the economy and paying taxes that will pay for her kid’s public schooling someday.” Yes! Good comeback. I pay taxes! I do lots of selfless things for other people. In fact, just moments after the whole passive-aggressive joke incident, I tipped the barista one dollar on a two-dollar coffee. That is a 50 percent tip!

I don’t understand how busy parents even have two seconds to look over the fence and notice what I’m doing. I couldn’t care less what anyone else does about their monthly egg-drop. Have kids. Don’t have kids. Be one of those weird adults who like to sleep in a crib and drink from a bottle, pretending they are a kid—whatever gets you through life, as long as you’re not harming others, be my guest. It’s not like I’m raising babies on a farm and then slaughtering them for food. I’m just not making any babies to start with.

I like to think I’m using all my empathy for good—instead of wasting it on one kid my whole life, I perform selfless, random acts of kindness pretty often for lots of different people. I care about my fellow man and woman and I didn’t even birth them! I donate to charities that help children in third world countries get vitamins. I donate to charities that help the environment (your kids can thank me for their clean air once they learn how to talk). I send books to libraries in poor parts of the country. I help support my local food bank with money and canned food. I sign petitions and I call my senators and congresspeople to tell them to stop all of these silly wars that your kids are being forced to fight. I donate clothing to Goodwill every month (without getting a receipt for a tax write-off; you’re welcome, America). I actually must be one of the most selfless people on earth because I have no reason to be nice to anyone. I’m not on drugs and I have no maternal hormones pumping through my… veins? Brain waves? Arteries? (Where do hormones live?)

One afternoon at CVS, when the woman in front of me realized at the checkout that she’d forgotten her wallet, I purchased the tampons she was trying to buy. I gave my friend a Klonopin once because she wanted to make sure she got some sleep on a flight. No, I’m not a doctor and I guess it’s not “legal” to share prescription medication, but my empathy couldn’t be stopped. Who doesn’t relate to wanting to sleep on a flight?

I used to volunteer at a homeless shelter one Sunday every month. I ultimately had to stop being a Sunday lunch server but it wasn’t my fault. I used to talk to this old transient hippie about the Who every time I plopped mashed potatoes on his plate as he made his way down the food line. One day he handed me his phone number and said, “Call me. Or give me your number and I’ll call you.” First of all—he had a phone? I wanted him to have a phone. But now I wasn’t sure whether he was a homeless guy who was starting to make good or just some seventies burnout who came through the line for free hot food and to meet girls. In response to my shocked look he said, “Oh, come on, honey. Don’t be a tease.”

It would be great if I could use all of the spare time that I have helping others, but it’s not that easy. I’d love to be considered unselfish and Christlike, but as a woman it’s nearly impossible. Jesus had a penis, so he could feed a homeless person without the dude saying, “Hey, I know phones haven’t been invented yet but can I have your number?” Jesus could be nice to strangers without them getting the wrong idea and calling him a tease. And let me remind you once again that Jesus, aka the original Oprah, did not have children either.

7. I Don’t Have the Mom Jeans Gene

Aretha Franklin sang, “I didn’t know just what was wrong with me / Till your kiss helped me name it / Now I’m no longer doubtful of what I’m living for / ’Cause if I make you happy I don’t need no more / ’Cause you make me feel, you make me feel like a natural woman.”

That song is not about having a baby, and do you think that anyone dared to get in Aretha’s face and tell her that love and kisses are nice but she’s not really a natural woman until she pops one out?

I cry. I get manicures and pedicures. I am the sole employee and president of my own corporation. I get my period. I get PMS. I get bloated. I get horny around hot guys. I get horny around quirky-looking guys. I change my hair color and style about four times a year. I think that if I were a lesbian, I’d be a “lipstick” one or I’d like the Hilary Swank–in–Boys Don’t Cry type. I live alone and am thus the head of my own household. I’ve had my heart broken. I’ve broken hearts. Sometimes I feel like I don’t have a heart. I’ve had sex for love and I’ve had sex for sex. I’m still unsure of my exact bra size. I like how my stomach seems flat in the morning and hate by the end of the day that it resembles a semi-blown-up beach ball half. I have varicose veins that I just don’t look at because they’re on the backs of my legs. I squeal and clap my hands if a song comes on the radio that I like—even if I’ve heard it ten thousand times in my life. I do karaoke. I get drunk at weddings. I listen to Madonna. I listen to the Sex Pistols. I’ve been in therapy for ten years straight. I love my parents and I talk to them on the phone. I yell at my parents when we’re on the phone and I just don’t have the patience to answer the same question over and over. All of these things make me a woman. I feel pretty natural about it. I don’t even own a push-up bra, that’s how natural I am. Yet there are people who have tried to invalidate my womanhood because I refuse to do this one thing—grow another person inside my belly.

They act like my not having kids spells the end of the human race. Look, plenty of other women can take care of this. I’d start to get nervous if men were the ones who had to have the babies—that would be the end of humanity. My dad cried once because he accidentally used my toothbrush. He hates germs and couldn’t fathom how to go on with his life for a good five minutes after the incident. He’s a sensitive soul who spends his days trying to avoid physical pain, and using someone’s toothbrush could lead to catching a cold, which could lead to a painful sinus headache. So, while I love that women are the ones who got the “people-making equipment,” I just don’t want to use mine, much like that juicer I have that’s still in the box. I simply don’t have the urge to make a fresh-squeezed fetus in my lady-blender.

I’m sure squatting in a hole to go number two is actually more natural and the way God intended us to expel our waste—rather than sitting on a porcelain chair and reading the National Enquirer. But I’m fine with being unnatural about my bathroom habits. I’m comfortable. Coincidentally, my body is very comfortable not being pregnant. I have some small stretch marks on my inner thigh and I don’t know where they’re from. I’ve had them since I was a teenager. I do not write blogs or do interviews with magazines about them, or show them off on TV. There’s this cultural fad around women who have stretch marks from pregnancy, claiming that the marks are beautiful and the women are “proud of them.” I am not proud of mine. They confuse me. When did I stretch?

Unless your stretch marks have solved a water-shortage crisis or found a way to cap greenhouse gas emissions, let’s go easy on the word “proud.” Your skin got stretched out because your body went through some changes. There shouldn’t be pride in the natural cycle of life. My parents didn’t teach me to be overly proud of myself. It’s a Catholic thing. (It’s also a Massachusetts thing. There’s no shortage of people in your family to say, “You think you-ah so great or somethin’? So what you can Hula-Hoop? I saw a boy on TV do it for a wicked long time.”) It happens whether we worked hard for our stretch marks or not. And besides, we all know that given the choice, most people would choose to not have stretch marks, unless the reward was sleeping with 1960s Robert Redford. And then you’re fucked because he’s not going to sleep with you again after he sees those puppies. So