A menstrual rant by Dr. Nutmeg………..
Yes. It’s that time of the month. Extra salt. Melted hot chocolate at the Union Square Christmas fair. Fat pants. Guinness. And the realization that I forgot, again, to get pregnant. I’ve forgotten now…hmmm. How many times? 30 years x 12 = 360 times.
At this juncture, the stats aren’t looking so good: No boyfriend. No home. No health insurance.
The pregnant woman social media fetish feed gives me sickness every morning.
I pause dramatically before liking the photos of friends who were members of my True Love tribe.
I notice my True Love has not yet had babies of his own, and wonder what the hell he’s waiting for.
I stare at babies in cafes. And they stare back.
Mothers say to me in their obnoxious contagious way, “You’re next!”
Men say to me, “You’re so loving, you would be a great mom,” and proceed to NOT impregnate me.
The kids I teach swimming at the YMCA fall in love with me. I fall in love with them.
I mean…what am I doing with my life? What have I been doing with my life?
- Falling in and out of love
Are babies the end all be all of creation? Are babies the only way to validate the existence of woman? I don’t know. I just feel sad. S-A-D, sad. I have this apparatus that has not produced a single fleshly fruit, 360 times. I can show off plenty of digital offspring on the pregnant woman social media fetish feed. Yeah. Dammit. I have pixelated children ALL OVER the Internet: Interactive maps, beautifully designed advertising packages, videos… I could also say I’m hella pregnant with my next digital child, too! Yeah! A whole season of animated episodes about a mad scientist who manufactures robots in a factory to create the family she could never have. It’s so pathetic. My fiction is actually my reality. It’s so tragic. It’s so gross. Twisted. I thought I was creative and brilliant and different and post feminist and futuristic but I’m just SAD. A sad, repressed excuse for a human.
There was a time this summer when I thought about ending the whole SAD story. Like Romeo & Juliet. Tess of the D’Urbervilles. Les Miserables. Tragic stories are tragic because they end with death. To be honest, I’m not in that space anymore. I don’t feel suicidal. I just feel SAD. And SAD is OK. Especially when it is post-feminist entitled SADness. I am not totally homeless in New York cuz both my parents are still alive, still love each other, still love their kids and grandkids, have retirement income and own real estate they say is also mine. And my health insurance situation is fixable as long as I choose a plan on the exchange marketplace in the next four days. I’m also on a path to pay off my last grad school student loan by March. Yeah. I said, “Grad skule.” So boo fuckin hoo.
So, after I pay it, will I be ready to be pregnant and be a mom for the next 18 years? 44 + 18 = 62. I would be hella old whenever this child is ready to go off to college, complaining that I don’t have enough money to send him/her to college. Does this reality mean that the baby ship has passed for me? And if so, can I stop having these monthly meltdowns…and be friends with the women I was friends with when I was dating my True Love?
Or, should I take The Femmebots to the women in tech conference, make sure I see my True Love, sleep with him, and GetKnockedUp?
Chakra Girl: Sounds like a plan only a mad scientist would try.
Dr. Nutmeg: Pft. Oh. You. Little miss light bright. So. Tell me, what would you do?
Chakra Girl: Chakra Girl is not ruled by a biological clock! We can love Mr. True Love AND we can open ourselves up to all kinds of love! New Love! Old love, not just this one person we call Mr. True Love! Got it?
Dr. Nutmeg: Sounds slutty, so sounds good.
Chakra Girl: I’m not talking about sleeping with everyone until you GetKnockedUp, geez.
Dr. Nutmeg: Oh. Well, I’m smutty and slutty, those are my defaults, so what ARE you saying?
Chakra Girl: I’m saying a baby and a man isn’t the only picture a woman can draw.