Living Out Loud: : The "One" Question

That annoying tick

I was minding my own business one day, playing with someone's cute 11-month-old baby boy, as late 20- to early 30-year-old single women often do, when that annoying tick showed up, which by the way does exist and gets even louder around that certain time of the month or during dinners with my family when all the sweet, yet loud, little children are offering me love, devotion — and the common cold.

Anyway, I was assaulted on that day with the worst question — and sometimes it seems the only question a late 20s to early 30-year-old woman is asked: "When are you going to have one?"

I have a sarcastic nature, so I took that minute to ponder on what exactly is meant by having "one."

There are many "ones" to a single 30-year-old woman. There is one cup of coffee in the morning, followed by one bowl of cereal eaten with one spoon. One great workout, followed by one hot bath and one large bowl of chocolate ice cream. Or perhaps one big spur of the moment shopping spree, with one ending up with one fabulous pair of shoes with one perfect outfit, followed by one hot date and one good shag, one kicking out one's shag partner and one having one long nap until about, um, 1 p.m., the next day.

Or did she mean the kid?

She couldn't have possibly meant the kid. Why do people with children always want a childless person to have children?

Is it that much fun? It doesn't seem like much fun. And don't give me this "fulfilling" stuff, because gas feels fulfilling, too; and I would rather pass on it. Get it?


Now don't get me wrong. I have nothing against reproduction, and I plan on someday reproducing twins, a boy and a girl named Kai and Imani respectively. Raising them to be proud and sarcastic members of American society, who will graduate with honors from a HBCU, get married or not and will, I hope, someday blame me for all the problems in their lives. I totally plan on working on that — someday soon, after meeting the right baby daddy, of course.

But for now, sorry, I just want shoes.

Call me selfish; go ahead, I don't care. I want shoes — and not just any shoes, but expensive shoes, and lots of them: wedges, kitten heels, boots, mules, stilettos, you understand.

I want to be Carrie Bradshaw, strutting down Main Street with delicious open-toed red leather pumps with great elliptical-machine-induced legs growing out of them. And no matter how hard you try, it's freaking hard to strut with a kid.

What I'm getting at is that I and all the other late 20- to 30-year-old single women out there are fabulous. We don't apologize for it.

Those who get depressed because they spend all their time looking for the perfect man to marry and have the perfect child to raise in the perfect house in West Chester, well, you just suck! Live your life while you can afford to do it and have the butt for it. If the West Chester thing is meant to work out for you, it will.

So, after my minute was up, I decided to answer the question that was asked, the same way I have so many times before.

With laughter.

I continued to play with my chubby little friend, which happily silenced the little tick for a while.

Shut up already!

You see, we late 20- to early 30-years-old women have a secret. We don't spend every waking hour pondering over what will be and what will someday come. If we have been lucky enough to see 30, single and employed, we thank our lucky stars and celebrate the fact that we are now the movers of the earth. We are the present, and the present looks good. We might take a moment to look back and look at our lives and wonder how our actions led to the place we are, but we realize that we're thankful that we, as single young adults, have the opportunity to move our world in any direction we choose. It's our prerogative. It's good to be me.

Tick ... Tick ... Tick ...

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