As someone who constantly has to justify their decision to not have children to their friends and family, I’m fully comfortable with being judged at this point. Of course, when I know I’m going to meet up with my pregnant girlfriends, I prepare a kindly worded statement in my head about ten minutes prior to my arrival, but that’s because I’m done being berated with questions like, “Don’t you want to contribute to the biological well-being of our species?” or “If you’re having problems, why don’t you pay the $10,000 you obviously have lying around to freeze your eggs?”
Most of these “girlfriends” are made up of people I actually despise, but had to befriend in order to create the façade for my parents that I’m not leading a life of complete and utter solitude. It turns out I’m exceptional at using people for my own personal gain.
What no one understands is that if I’m to secure my rightful place atop the Mermelstein family hierarchy, having kids is simply not an option. I’ve officially become the senior resident at the hospital with my supervisor being the great Dr. Gouldmanberg, which prompted my father, Norman, to finally admit that he’s proud of me as he swiftly approaches death. Could be any day now. And my mother, Blanche, who leads a barely respectable existence as a homemaker, is nothing compared to me – a doctor overcoming daily in-office sexism with a projected fifteen-year timeline to being made a neurosurgeon, assuming all the smoking the current one does shortens his lifespan as intended. I’ve crunched the numbers and feel confident his lungs will collapse.
As I approach my 32nd birthday, I am miles ahead of them in terms of social and financial status. All that’s left is to assume control. My brothers stand no chance as they chose to be struggling artists and I chose the correct path, the one where I gave up my dream of being a world-renowned playwright. I had written six full-length plays in the span of a month and was given an opportunity to be a playwright-in-residence at one of my favorite theatres, but realized there wouldn’t be enough in it for me if I wanted to finally prove to the family that little ol’ Ali is a big girl now. I am in fact mature enough to go on the farkakte mountain rollercoaster at Disney World. And no, Grandma and Grandpa don’t need company. No they do not.
If I were to have kids of my own, I’d have to worry about them becoming better than me, which is the situation my parents have found themselves in. The amount of effort I’d have to put in to ensure the children’s overall self-esteem is as low as it can be would take away time that I could be using to destroy everyone else. They’re just extra bodies that I don’t need right now. Plus, you have to feed them and I sure as hell don’t cook. I’ve eaten ramen with a side of buttered, steamed broccoli for the past ten years in order to afford rent.
Now, this isn’t to say I don’t have the ability to be a mother. I would mother the shit out of those kids. Some say, “You could adopt later if you change your mind.” Those people are sociopaths. If I have a kid, they’re gonna need my genes or else they’ll never make it. Only someone from my egg could withstand a life full of unrealistic expectations and inevitable disappointment.
So, no, I don’t want to have kids. And I’m okay with it. I’m really, seriously, one hundred percent doing fine. I’m fine. Did you catch that? I am fine. I have no desire to raise a child of my own. It’s strange to me that you care so much about my choices. That’s the real kicker in all this.
I know it’s supposedly the best thing anyone could ever do with themselves and everyone who thought they didn’t want kids has a complete change of heart upon having them because they’re a gift to the world and represent all that is good about humanity. I know. Here’s the thing though – I really don’t care about your opinions or what you think of me. I’m a goddamn Mermelstein.