While I’m writing this piece of very poor literature, I’m currently 26 and listening to Lady Gaga’s Bad Romance. It’s kinda cathartic if you really think about it.
Anyway, anything to keep my hands and brain busy than to hop on Facebook and see a plethora of what I like to call “the pitfall of adulthood.”
Or “where my childhood dreams go to hang out and die.”
Facebook is a dangerous place, folks. Seriously. And I’m not talking about that guy from India who just sent you a friend’s request just to fill your hopes with dick picks.
(Although, yeah… that too.)
I’m talking about all your childhood friends posting pictures of their engagement party, the wedding ceremony — at which you were invited to but faked a business trip across the ocean — the first house together or, the most dreaded of all, pictures of their baby bumps.
Followed by — at nine months apart — the cutest baby faces you have ever seen on Earth.
How are they so cute?
Anyway, back to this nonsense.
It’s not that I hate it, really, I’m happy for them (kinda) and I carry the same hope for a brighter future for myself too, you know?
Just, not now.
How am I considered old at 26? We’re not in a Jane Austen novel, for fuck sake! The fact that I want to think about myself, my career, my plans, doesn’t mean I’m never gonna get a husband, right?
“Still no boyfriend, babe?” they ask me whenever I casually meet them at the post office, bills in one hand, baby giggling in the other.
And then, with the fakest smile that carries pity, they look at you and say “Tick Tock Tick Tock”
And you smile back because it’s better than flipping the bird at them in the middle of a crowded parking lot. Right?
The thing that stings the most is that fucking sound that stays with you for days, repeating over and over inside your brain until you wonder if there’s really something wrong with you or what.
I want babies. I want it all. A wedding in a barn? Want it. A bloody massive house, all brightly coloured cause I ain’t no dentist, here? Want that too. But I want it as far away from now. Is that wrong?
How can I even think about carrying a baby inside me if I still think I’m the baby that needs to be cared of.
How am I supposed to do that, knowing that I can’t even keep a bloody dog because it’s just too high maintenance and “mom, can you walk him this morning because I’d rather sleep, please?”
There is no you when it comes to babies. Mind that.
Yes, they fill your life like anything else but I’m still filled with hoped and dreams of my own and I’d really love to go after them right now than jump out of bed in the middle of the night to lull a sweet tiny creature to sleep.
I’m not a monster for that, am I?
But still, the doctor says that I should really think about it before it’ll get harder to have a baby later and I tell her that I have no plans of doing that right now. She looks at me in shock, eyebrows barely touching the sky while her kids smile at me in mockery from a silver photo frame.
I leave the doctor’s office proud of me, for standing my ground but also, worried.
She bloody got to me, hasn’t she?
So I go home and with a flip of a finger, I search for the best Dating App that promises me the best bachelor in the land — comes with full four pack and a dick like no other (that’s what he says anyway).
I look at it (the app, not the dick) and immediately regret it.
What was I thinking?
My parents met on a bus for the beach, fell in love and wrote each other’s letters because they lived far apart.
Can an app provide me with that?
Can an app say if the guy is the one that won’t leave me as soon as the word “baby” is gently and excitingly thrown at him?
One who could hold me and reassure me whenever I’m having a panic attack and doesn’t run away as soon as my hands start shaking from fear od dying. Someone who I could fight with, hard, but then comes back home with a book because he knows me that well?
Maybe, but I’d rather fall for someone randomly at a Supermarket or at the post office than desperately looking for the love of my life among a million pictures of badly tanned penises.
So, to quote one of my least favourite artists, thank you, next.