Part 55: Pregnancy

Everywhere I peep lately my blue eyes land upon swollen ladies, waddling ladies with ankles spilling like muffin tops over the edges of their converse, ladies plastered in creamy foundation – attempting to cover the sallow skinned, sunken eyed tiredness of the permanently nauseated, ladies with foetuses swimming in the amniotic fluid of their stretched wombs, bellies protruding, breath short, clothes skin-tight.

Being pregnant. It’s all the rage.

Never mind that women have been growing babies inside their fertile wombs since our species emerged from the water and stopped laying eggs. Ever since teenagers started doing it regularly, pregnancy’s become vogue.

It’s a thing now.

There’s bump revealing maternity wear, baby showers, endless pictures of naked expectant celebrities wrapped in a sheet, television programmes that let you watch all the pregnant ladies exorcise a foetus from their cervix.

I’m all for exhibitionism and immodesty, but come on.

It’s a little bit disgusting.

Even if it is the most natural thing in the world.

As you’ll no doubt agree single people, other people’s pregnancies, much like other people’s dreams, are exceedingly dull.

Once you’ve seen one digital sonogram you have literally (by which I mean figuratively) seen them all. Flaunting a baby lump in a succession of floral outfits is gross enough, but flaunting photographs of your actual naked bump is taking it to another level. I don’t want to see that. Unless you’re my sister, best friend or lover. In which case, I wanna see that in the flesh, maybe, but definitely not on my facebook newsfeed, when I might be eating dinner.

Still, if other people’s pregnancies are one hideous thing, contemplating your own is another – entirely more alarming – prospect.

Consider: Youth, energy, tautness – these are things that will fade with time, nothing surer – unless you want to spend insane amounts of dollar on painful surgery that will leave you looking like a melted waxen Barbie doll, a la Meg Ryan (and still, that’ll solve only one out of three of the problems presented by ageing).

The more I think about the brevity of life the less I understand why one would voluntarily give up one’s youth, energy and tautness by growing a baby inside one’s belly, pushing it out through a small opening in one’s genitals, and staying up all night offering it tender love when what you really want to do is chuck it onto the concrete floor of a soundproofed room and GO BACK TO SLEEP.

I have furrowed my perfect brow over this for some time, and have concluded that the only reason people get pregnant is because of their personal failure to resist biological urges (incidentally, another reason that being single is to be recommended is because it gives one practice in resisting unwise biological urges. There’re only so many times you can wake up in cold panic, washed in the soapy regret that is the result of letting fat scumbags touch your silken flesh, before you learn to ignore that sex drive and just say no).

It’s not just the physical actuality of pregnancy and parenthood that’s making me glad I’ll probably never go there though. One of the reasons I’m glad to be single is that I will never have to have the ‘talk’ with a husband or boyfriend. The ‘talk’ that results in an otherwise sane couple telling friends that they’re ‘trying’ – thus conjuring an image in the friends’ minds of the couple at it. Her legs akimbo, teeth clenched, him pummeling away in a sweaty, lustless, rhythm while paranoid thoughts of virility swill through his brain mass.

That’s like, so not what I want to be visualising at social events.

Of course because contrariness is my middle name (jokes, it’s Anne) I’m not altogether anti having a child. As I’ve professed on this page often enough: squidgy fat baby hands are totally biteable. Yes, the thought of changing nappies, or feeding another human being from the nipples of my breasts, like a moo-cow, sets my teeth on edge – like the concept of touching someone else’s eyeball.

But if you’re into that, fair enough. I mean, I’m not judgemental. I wouldn’t be in the world today if my own parental unit had concluded that pregnancy was essentially a massive, uncomfortable faff producing a teeny screaming, money absorbing mass of flesh and organs with diminishing pleasure returns. I love life. It’s just, being single and childless makes it a lot easier to be fabulous. Trust me. I know shit.

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