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Growing Pain

As I get older, I can’t help but notice how many of my friends and peers from High School are settling into their lives. People are getting married and having kids, moving out of their parents houses, and back in six months later. Some people I knew during school are even well on their way to making a name for themselves.

And here I am, sitting on my couch, writing a blog no one reads.

Honestly, that’s enough to get anyone down, but, somehow, it rarely dampens my spirits. Mostly because I ignore it, I think.

On the other hand, sometimes I’m glad that I’m not settling down into a family I’m not ready for, given my crippling fear of pregnancy and childbirth. Not to mention my fear of being alone with small, volatile children. I have my partially-brain-dead cat, and that’s really all I need as far as incoherent company.

I’ve also noticed that a lot of popular female bloggers are mothers, which leads me to ask:

“How long is it going to be before people start giving me the ‘Why don’t you have kids yet?’ look?”

I don’t mind the idea of having kids, I mind the idea of having babies. To be perfectly honest, I think I’d be just as happy with a house full of cats and a sign in my front lawn that says “Beware of Gnomes”.

And as odd as it sounds, I’m kind of looking forward to The Look, or, for some of the more opinionated pro-morefamilythanyoucanlegallyhandle people, the loudly asked question. “I’ll have children if or when I’m damn well ready. Keep your nose out of my uterus.”

Growing up has always seemed a scary concept for me, and I’ve dedicated a lot of my life to avoiding it as much as possible. The adult world is a harsh place, where the bank always wants to take what you have, and your peers tell you what you have is never enough, and I think I’m well within my rights to postpone growing up until I can figure out a way to make it less frightening.