I Can Barely Take Care of Myself Jen Kirkman (best books for students to read txt) 📖

may not have anything else in common with one another except that none of us right now has a toddler saying, “Mommy, please put a shirt on. It’s inappropriate to sit around the house in a bra and why is there a peacock on your head?”

So while I sit here on my couch at home dressed like someone halfway to senility, I’m remembering the time that I was sitting on a couch in my psychologist’s office, wondering whether it was weird that I still had my sunglasses on my head during our session. I wondered whether I was too accessorized for sitting around figuring out my problems and analyzing my patterns. It feels like I should treat therapy like going through airport security (which I do a few times a month as a traveling stand-up comedian)—I should have nothing in my pockets, no shoes and no jewelry around my neck, nothing on my outside that can distract the person in front of me from seeing what I look like on the inside.

That day I said to my shrink, “I feel like an outsider in the world because I never want to have children. When people ask me if I want children and I say no—they always say things like ‘You’ll change your mind.’ I’m sick of it and I feel like I don’t fit in.” I don’t know what I expected my therapist to say—probably her usual: “Was there a time in childhood when you felt like an outsider? Is this pushing any old buttons? You know if it’s hysterical, it’s historical.” What I didn’t expect was that she’d say, “You don’t want kids? Why not? What’s up with that?” What’s up with that?

“Oh no,” I said. “Not you too! You’re going to tell me I’m weird for not wanting children?” She explained that it’s my reaction to those people that we need to work on—and that we don’t need to attach any jumper cables to my biological clock. She suggested that instead of answering, “I don’t want kids,” that I should simply say, “It’s not in my plans right now.” Oh boy. She had no idea what I was up against at every cocktail hour/wedding/shower/holiday party I’ve been to since I started to ovulate. I’m convinced that people who want kids and people who have kids have secret meetings where they come up with their talking points. There’s not one response to “I’m not having kids” that I haven’t heard and I’ve heard the same questions and comments approximately one bazillion times:

• If you don’t have kids, who is going to take care of you when you’re old? (Servants?)

• Men have to spread their seed. It’s in their DNA. (He can spread his seed all he wants. I have a magic pill that prevents it from growing.)

• But it’s the most natural thing you can do as a woman. (So is getting my period every month.)

• That’s selfish. You can’t be immature forever. (And spending your days watching Dora the Explorer with a kid is mature?)

• You have to replace yourself on earth. What will you leave behind? (There are a few plastic bags that I never recycled . . .)

Random people who want me to have children are the same type of people who won’t let up on me because I haven’t watched The Wire and I never plan to. I just never got into The Wire. Is The Wire brilliant and life altering and does it make you feel less alone at night? Yes! That doesn’t mean I have to like the show. I have no opinion on The Wire. It is just not a part of my life. I’m not trying to be cool or different. A Non–Wire Lover is not my identity. I just don’t even think about The Wire. And yet people continue, “It’s available on Netflix!” “I understand that it’s easy to get.” “You’ll love it.” “I won’t. I might. I don’t care.” “How can you not watch it? Well, what kind of shows do you watch?” What will happen to these people if I never see The Wire? Are they at home feeling a phantom pain in their abdomens and thinking, If Jen would only watch The Wire, this bad feeling would go away. And in the same way my Netflix queue remains Wire-free, people seem really agitated that my womb remains baby-free.

I took my therapist’s advice and started getting cagey with my answer. But once I started saying, “It’s not in my plans right now,” it was taken as, “Yes, I plan to have kids someday.” And then just to avoid arguments, I went through a phase of lying. “Yes. I want to have kids someday. I want to have kids right now. Anybody have a turkey baster? Let’s kick this party up a notch. I’m ovulating!” But I’m not going to lie anymore.

I’ve always been a little different. I was called a “freak” in high school because I wanted to be on a stage instead of on a lacrosse field. I went to a job interview at an office straight out of college wearing black tights, green nail polish, and clear jelly shoes. I got the job but my new boss took me aside to explain the office dress code. She asked me, “What were you trying to prove with that outfit? Why do you want to look weird?” I had honestly thought that this was a good outfit to wear. I wouldn’t even know how to try to be weird. It seems like too much effort. Just like trying to be normal—whatever that looks like—often seems more trouble than it’s worth. I mean, who really wants to wash her car in the driveway every Sunday (or even have a driveway)?

My favorite TV show when I was six was The Lawrence Welk Show. I wanted to grow up and live in a world of bubbles and polka music someday. I went to the most popular girl in school’s slumber party in the sixth grade dressed as Groucho Marx.