"Ha!" I scoffed as I walked sololy into the local watering hole this last weekend. "Just look at all of these folks trying to find a suitable bed warmer!"
I was supposed to walk into that bar and watch all of the woodsman figure out which single vixen would be whiskeyed away to their burley bagua. I was. But I couldn't over the din of my own personal biological clock ever-so-gently banging the gong.
In the store the other day while I perused the Thai food section, my son sweetly and discretely bellowed, "MOM, WHY DOES YOUR BODY WANT TO HAVE MORE BABIES?"
I almost couldn't hear him over the whoosh of humiliation throbbing in my ears. (Note: Children obviously DO hear your conversations with your mother after your second glass of wine.)
The biological urge to mate and fork and knife and spoon and make babies apparently does not leave once you have shat forth the next generation as one would assume. It wells up and continues to haunt you well after you've declared you're done spawning.
"Why?" I shout to my womb in my best navel-gazing pose while I jangle my gold retirement watch. "I've delivered two reasonably attractive children into this world! What more do you want from me?!" ::Then shouting to the heavens::"What's wrong with me?!"
Oh yeah. Right.
I sat at the bar and watched the flocks of happy people making a ruckus over their beers and noticed something: There were no single people in the bar. They all came with their equally jovial counterparts. I did the math. Everybody came out even. Well, except for me. And then I took a further step back and checked out the entire valley. Out of all the single girlfriends I've made over the years, I was the last one solo. They all managed to find partners of some kind or another. Hell, it seems like everyone has either a hunk of meat in their bed or at the very least a slab of something on the side.
And to make matters even more bitch-worthy, I got a call. The three-legged cat (whom I already named Emily Dickenson) has already been adopted. Yes, she slipped between my purr-starved, one-cat's-not-enough fingers.
Consoling my greedy cat-needing self, I realized that I needed to suck it up, go on without my beloved Emily Dickenson and get another damned cat.
Until I realized something terrifyingly astonishing. I will preface said epiphany with a factoid.
My daughter recently taught me how to age a pine tree. Pine trees grow a tier of branches for every year that they survive.
It's only logical to assume that for every year a single woman survives the rutting season she acquires a new cat. So you know that crazy old lady with a brazillion cats on your street? Yup. She's prolly been single a brazillion years, poor thing.
I think of this girl in the infancy of her crazy cat lady phase.
She's got so much to offer the cat world.
So what the hell is there left to do? What the hell do we do? (royal "we," I assume. I hope).
We trudge the hell forward, that's what. We continue on in our pursuits of careers and child-rearing (if applicable) and supremacy over the deviant mass that is the laundry.
We stifle the biological gong with pie.
Sure, it sucks. But the options, being scant, aren't worth the sacrifice. I'll get over this rutting season new cat or no new cat.
Allz I can say is thank gawuduh for pinterest.