The backstory: Part Two

I was born without the girly gene. Not the girl gene, I've got that one (on account of the vagina and uterus and ovaries and such). I mean the girly gene. The one that makes certain people love clothes shopping and shoes that have no business being anywhere but on display. The gene that makes fashion magazines and chick lit and the Fab Five possible. The gene people who get their hair "styled" instead of cut, and who pay any attention to condition of their finger nails and feet, have. That gene. I didn't get one. Or mine's defective or something.

Secondly--while on the topic of defective--there's the issue of my inhospitable womb. What an impossibly ridiculous term, that. An inhospitable womb. Makes you picture a shabby (uterus shaped?) hotel; dingy, smoke stained curtains, moldy mints on stained pillow cases, a front desk clerk that says "Well I'd like to be skinny and rich" when you call down and say you'd like some clean towels. However it's a uterine condition--an "environment" actually--created by a host of painful and degenerative injuries and maladies that, combined, make it so fertilized eggs won't pitch a tent and stay awhile in l'utérus de Geist. There are surgeries, I have been told. Repeatedly. My whole adult reproductive life. Which would have been great news had I ever developed the minutest desire to bear children. The fact that my body couldn't host a fetus was a lucky break in my opinion, not a condition to be remedied.

Thirdly. Anti-breeding politics. Short form: we've got enough people, people! And we have for a long time. There has yet to be a natural disaster, war, or pandemic hearty enough to reduce the population to a number we can feed let alone make breeding necessary. I could never justify making new babies when we, as a human race, aren't exactly doing a crackerjack job of providing for the ones already here--dying of starvation, or preventable disease, or languishing in the world's orphanages and in foster care. I'd always planned to have children someday, however it honestly never occurred to me to like, grow them.

So! How does a genetically impaired zero population freak with a defective uterus end up going through with a--she had been told--medically impossible pregnancy? Damned if I know. All's I know is my ankles, ass and belly are the size of honeydew melons, and the little man inside of me clearly does not care fuck-all about my politics, more masculine bend in the gender-specificity game, or the lacking hospitality in my womb: he has his own agenda. I assume we will be informed more fully at an undisclosed future date. In the meantime...

Posted by Antigeist at May 31, 2006 11:28 AM