January 23, 2012

Cry “havoc!” and let loose the 21st century trolls of war.


I lived in my house for just under 8 years before selling it post-divorce in 2011.  In that time, I had never had a pregnancy scare, adopted a kid, or even really had a person that kicked dirt at the “Must be this tall” sign at the amusement park in the house for longer than a few hours.  If they were there, they were with their handlers and promptly left with them when the occasion was over.  Short version is, I don’t have, nor will I have, wee ones of my own.  

What’s funny about this is the mailers I get.  I’m young enough to not have reached that mythical sexual peak that men whisper about in dark corners and locker rooms.  This is why all the mailers for tours of retirement communities and discounts on my AARP memberships make me laugh at the wasted postage.  After a local assisted living place sent me a third mailer, I finally called them and told them to please take me off their list.

Don’t get me wrong, my grandma had a more active social life than I do when she was living in her apartment.  I was envious of all her options.  However, I’m thinking there are others who could benefit from the sponge baths from Enrique more than I could.  

This brings me to my last set of mailers that just crack me up.  For some reason, somehow I have landed on a New Mother mailing list.  What’s funny about this is I’m pretty vocal about being child free.  I’m a S.I.N.K.  (I’m all that and the kitchen sink?  Oooh, the jokes in there abound!)  Most of the time, if you’re on that kind of list, you get all sorts of offers for free stuff; diapers, formula, day care.  You name it, there’s someone hawking you something.  However, I have been limited to offers to have my non-existent baby photographed for free from no fewer than SEVEN local photography studios.  Now, while I schemed about finding a way to find a 6 foot plus, hairy man friend willing to put on a diaper and a bonnet as a gag, it occurred to me that perhaps a heavier handed approach would yield more results.  The black light bulb over my head clicked on, and my forehead started to itch as my devil’s horns started to grow.  This is going to be good.

Let’s establish some facts.  You average human is typically hardwired to want to spawn.  There’s a reason why young women doodle their first names paired with the last names of their crushes on trapper keepers.  It’s biology!  There are women in my own family who have spent twice their annual income on fertility services, and here I went and got myself medically sterilized.  My best friend likes to tell me I’m a puma, too young to be a cougar, and I’ve been fixed but not declawed.  However, I am a statistical anomaly.  I can use this to my advantage.  Enter my uncomfortable spotlight of shame; a letter about the tragic loss of my wee one.  (A fictional love story.)

Begin Letter:

Dear sir or Madame at [Photography studio],
I am writing in response to your offer to bring my baby in for a free photoshoot.  When I got your mailer, it tore my heart from my chest to see all the beautiful babies and know that mine was never to be among them.  You see, I lost my baby in a car crash.  I was several months along when I was broadsided by a driver in an SUV who was texting instead of paying attention.  By the time we were rushed to the hospital, it was too late.  My baby was already gone.  What’s worse is that, because of my injuries, I can never have another.  That driver took two very precious things from me that night.  

Later, it could come to pass that he would take a third.  My husband stayed with me till I was recovered enough to dress myself and walk again.  But, as soon as I was home and back to work, he asked me for a divorce.  It seems having a family was more important to him than our marriage.  And since I couldn’t provide that for him, it was time to move on to a more “perfect” woman.  I was devastated.  He left me the house and the car and a healthy alimony payment.  Probably out of guilt.  But, I am left alone in the house that was once so full of happiness and love, only to remember how it would never be the same.  

Ok, that’s a big fat lie.  All of it.  I’ve never been in a crash, I’ve never been pregnant, and even though I am divorced, it wasn’t over my inability to have kids.  I’m sterile by CHOICE and a rather staunch supporter of the Child Free movement.  I’m writing to request that you please contact your mailing list provider and ask them to update their records.  They are wasting your money by including my name in their database.  

Regards,
Ephemily.


*Edit,  The more I thought about this, the meaner it started to feel.  I think I'm going to leave this up, but write something new to replace it.  I know that you can't ever really delete something from the internet, so it seems cowardly to try.  Here's to my next effort being less Mean Girl, and more "Fine Point Nailed Home With A Hammer".

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