Holy Moly Matrimony
It’s interesting how strangers are more concerned with my reproductive health and marriage status than I am.
I was at my yearly appointment with the vagina doctor a couple years ago, and Dr. Connerly insisted on conversating while his face was in my crotch.
“Yep, you’ve got a lovely and healthy uterus,” he said, holding his flashlight in his mouth. Ok, it probably wasn’t in his mouth, but it might as well been, given my awkwardness. Dr. Connerly was an older gentleman and he reminded me of a grandpa, sweet as pie, which I’m not really sure what that says about me, that I’d rather have an old guy do medical things to my lady parts, rather than a woman or hot Dr. McSteamy. Side note, to this day, I resent that a doctor was the first male to ever touch my boobs.
“Thanks, I guess,” I replied. I have to say, I was kind of proud, no one had ever told me about the merits of my vulva and uterus before, and I smiled to myself.
“I have to ask, are you taking any prenatal vitamins,” he asked.
I told him no, and he said that was ok, it’s just, if I were thinking about having kids, I should really consider taking prenatal vitamins, and do some reading up on what I could do for my fertility health, you know, just so my body’s ready when I am. Well, being that I was there for birth control, no, no I wasn’t in fact thinking about having kids anytime soon. In fact, I was thinking about having my tubes tied while he was down there. I was 27 at the time.
I get mixed results when I tell people I don’t think I’m going to have children.
Sometimes they tell me it’s perfectly normal to not want to be a mom, not everyone is doing it these days. Others just tell me I’ll change my mind eventually, it’s the hardest job I’ll ever have but it will totally be worth it. Then, I think it’s nice that someone else has the ability to know what I want out of life, because I sure as hell don’t. Of course, they never say it looking me in the eyes, not sure why.
I can’t trust my inebriated self either when it comes to major life decisions. After date night, I am often shitfaced and I’ll stumble into the house, ahead of Jackson because I have to pee and I leave one item of clothing per foot of space throughout the house, leading to the bathroom. He comes inside and finds me sitting on the toilet. Then, I crawl to the bedroom and mumble to him that I want to make a baby while sloppily kissing at his face, then he pushes it away and I go to sleep. The next morning, I wake up and look at my makeup-smeared face in the mirror and thank the Lord that I don’t have to take care of a baby with my pounding headache. I then pick up my pants from the kitchen and proceed to make bacon.
I just can’t imagine a little being looking at me and asking me what it’s supposed to do. I have enough trouble being in charge of the dogs and myself. I can’t even find my phone right now. I’m terrible at self-censorship and would probably call the kid a dick to its face at least once, then I’d hate myself when they turn to heroine because I never even pretended Santa Claus was real.
I certainly won’t know what to do if I were to have a little girl.
“Mom, Tommy was so mean to me at school today, he’s so cute and I love him, why did he call me fat,” she would ask, the year she’s in 6th grade.
“It’s because he’s a dick and doesn’t like you Matilda,” I’d reply. “People will tell you it’s because he likes you that he’s mean and teases you, they’ll even tell you he hit you because he likes you. That’s bullshit Matilda, people don’t hit someone they love. Next week, he’ll tell you you’re pretty and try to put his hands down your pants and when you go off to college, he’ll visit you once, you’ll have sex in your dorm room and he will tell you he loves you, even though he just fucked Yolanda three days ago and didn’t tell you. Even if you two were to get married one day and live happily ever after, it won’t really be ever after; you’re going to have to wash his dirty underwear and feed him and he’ll buy you a knife set for Valentine’s Day, that is if he gets you anything, and you’re going to have to nag him every single day for the rest of your life to take the garbage out, and when you turn 40, he’s going to fall in love with Karen, even though she’s fatter than you, she understands him and you just haven’t given him the attention he needs, then he’s going to leave you, run your credit card to the max and disappear to Fiji.”
Then my daughter will blink her beautiful brown eyes and cry.
I also avoid weddings because again, strangers like to ask me questions that are none of their fucking business, like when I’m getting married. If you’re over the age of 13 and ask a single woman this question, you should be ashamed and go take a shot of go fuck yourself. It’s like saying to them, “Why are you failing at life?”
Seriously, that’s what you’re implying when you ask a wonderful, living, beautiful woman, why no one has made her his and announced it in the papers. There is no good answer we could give these people. I swear, I could win a Pulitzer and all people would ask me at weddings, is when I’m getting hitched, what’s wrong with me. I’ve made it a point, the next time someone asks this, I’m going to reply with, “Because I don’t give enough blow jobs,” call it a day, take a shot of rum and fist pump all the way to the dance floor, where I’ll dance with uncle Bob and maybe let him see my boobs, there’s always an uncle Bob at those things.
It’s a shame though, because I love weddings. It’s a reason to dress up and look way hotter than I do on any other night, formal wear just gets me man.
I’ve never been jealous of all my friends when they get married. My favorite part is when everyone stands up because they start playing the “entrance song,” whichever corny one they pick, and I turn and the shining bride walks down the aisle. I tear up every time and try not to look at Jackson during the ceremony because I don’t want to make him feel like a trapped animal, waiting for the slaughter.
I also adore the kiss, it’s always weird and contrived and their mouths never touch at the right angle, but it’s still beautiful, in a not Hollywood gross kind of way. Then I proceed to imagine setting every one else on fire because they have their phones out, taking pictures, as if they could take a better one than the photographer getting paid to take pictures.
Then the reception, I hate the reception, love the cake, but hate the chicken dance.
The problem with the reception, is normal, married people, who’ve been together for half a week, get wasted at the open bar, argue and grope their spouses. Then these assholes come and sit down next to Jackson and me. There’s not much worse than trying to make small talk with people you don’t know.
“So, how long have you guys been together,” Wifey asks, her eyes glazed and she’s teetering her head as she rests it on her fist, staring at me, with her big dumb wedding ring glaring in the chandelier light, hurting my eyes. Honestly, I’m not bitter at all.
“Almost eight years, how about you guys, how long have you been married,” I say.
Husband chimes in, “We’ve been together three long years, married one,” he says. “Oh jeez, eight years huh, well, when are you two getting married, you’re not getting any younger,” he says. He is probably also thinking that the stranger he’s looking at (me), should have a baby soon, otherwise the kid could have chromosomal problems, like that would be a horrible thing.
I will look at Jackson, with the, why-aren’t-we-married look and shrug my shoulders. He stammers, and I don’t listen to his reply, if he ever has one, and if he does, it’s not the truth anyways. What I REALLY want to say to these people is, “Because we still have sexy time like there’s no kids in the house, I make him pancakes, without any paperwork on file, and he’s waiting until I don’t anymore so he can walk away with minimal fees. Please, tell me, when was the last time you two had sex.” The couple will look at me, then each other and get up to leave the table. Then I will high five Jackson and show him my boobs.
I’ve read that you can tell the success and love level of a couple by listening to them recite the story of how they met. I’ve watched Jackson retell the tale numerous times. He never gets any less excited than the first time he’s ever told it, “And then, I just grabbed her bag and carried it to the helicopter.” He barely contains himself when he recalls another of “our” stories. He says, “Not everyone can say they’ve held hands with the person they love on an Army helicopter,” no my man, they all certainly can’t.
I don’t know if Jackson will ever ask me to marry him. I don’t even know if I want him to, or what I would answer. I do know, eight years after kissing him for the first time, I still want to kiss him. I also still want to grab his butt. For now, that is enough.
He would make beautiful babies though.