My Dear Gentlemen,
I’m going to say something that might make your skin crawl. Ready? I had weird baby dreams last night. Considering how well you understand the crazy woman you’re either currently dating or your “bro’s” dating, this will probably be helpful, so “bear” with me. (Sorry, I just couldn’t help myself.) You still there? Good.
Context: I’m a 30-something single chick. Baby dreams should be a dead give away for that one, but in case you’re thick, which we’ve already established, I thought I’d just spell it out for you. And if you’re a single straight dude brave enough to date a 30-something, that…”Why the fuck is this woman crazy?” question has certainly crossed your mind sometime this week. So I’ll tell you about this dream. Then we’ll analyze it, pull all it’s little hairs off and give you a rare glimpse into the not-so-crazy-30-brain. Then you’re going to use this information for the good of womankind. Cool?
Okay, dream goes like this:
Out of the blue, I have a baby. It basically fell from the sky. It’s a boy. And we’ve entered the scene when it’s about a year old but with like…a 5 year old face, I guess. I don’t really know cause I just don’t pay attention to other people’s weird looking babies the way I should. I also don’t pay attention to the cute ones. It’s like advertising. We’ve hit the saturation point on the FB, and I’m just over it. It’s not that I don’t care about your baby photos.
Okay, that’s a lie. I don’t. However this one in the dream was supposedly mine. It was also hairy. We’re talking serious hair here– chest hair, armpit hair, and even though this creature is technically mine, cause the dream told me that, I STILL don’t care. It’s like this weird bear-man-baby-thing, and it wanted to be nursed constantly. I was down with that. It felt kinda nice and I hear breast-feeding boosts your metabolism and makes your boobs huge. Cool. I didn’t know how to change its diapers, so my cousin did it for me. Also cool. I could just pass it off like a football.
“Oh. It shat. Go long! Diaper zone’s that way! Thanks.” Pretty great, right? No. It was just this awful hairy thing and it didn’t FEEL like mine, which of course stirred up loads of guilt, cause you’re suposed to LOOOOVE it and feel all these feeeeeeelings. I held it out in front of me, thinking that I should adore this bearish cone head and feel all mushy and bonded, but I felt NOTHING. Instead I’m thinking, “You are one hairy mother fucker. Who the fuck are you and why do I have to carry you around with me? Hungry?”
And the hairy baby would stare back like, “You’re an idiot. You don’t even know how to change a stupid diaper, but I’ll suck on your boob. Give it.”
And I’m like, “Okay, fine. Wow, my boobs are huge! ” And then I woke up with a shudder and showered immediately.
And just to make sure you have a suitable image to relate to…as if YOU had this dream yourself, here’s a menu of a few hairy-man-babies for you to choose from:
There was no glowing prego joy or awakening-like-birth dream. No cute gurgling. There wasn’t even a baby daddy to spoon. (WTF!?!?!?!) No lifestyle change except I had to stuff this thing into my handbag instead of some yippy accessory dog, (if I had one, which for the record, I don’t). Did I mention it was HAIRY, and top it all off, super sloppy with the milk. That shit went everywhere. Pig.
Right. So here’s my very unprofessional dream translation, and…boyz…you still there? This is where my creepy night can help shed some light for you, so pay attention:
Society is trying to tell me…no, society is screaming at me like a deaf grandma that I’m supposed to want a baby NOW. Nownownownownownonwonow. And my body’s hearing it. It’s all, “Yeah, you’re fertile.” But I don’t. I’m far too busy being awesome.
And then the math brain, which I haven’t taken out to play with since I quite that restaurant job back in 2004, it stirs to life, coughs a bit and says, “Baaaabe, you’re over 30. Get ON that baby pony and ride it cause you’ve got like….less than ten years to make one.” And then I punch Math Brain in the gonads and he goes back to sleep. I’m sorry. Ten years is a super super long time. LOOONG TIME, even when it flies.
Side note for Math Brain, cause Math Brain needs convincing:
Think back ten years. (Girls, this part’s for you too.) What have you done in that time? Who have you met? What have you learned? Where have you lived? Traveled? Did you go to grad school? How have you evolved? How has your WARDROBE changed?! Dear looooordy, even if you’re the most boring human being on earth, a shit ton has happened, I promise. I went to ad school. Lived in all sorts of badass cities, fell in love fell and out of love a bunch, got hired, got sacked, got hired, got promoted, quit, traveled, met Castro, not in that order. I’m not trying to make you feel lame here. I’m just making a point to Math Brain who’s currently convinced that I’m about to dry up and die in about five seconds. Five, four, three, two… he’s wrong. Ten years is A LOT. So fuck you, Math Brain. Get out of my girl junk, I’m TRYING to act normal.
Meanwhile, 30-something men, I’m guessing this conversation is happening on the sidelines:
“Dude-man, after 30, these bitches go baby-crazy-mental. It’s like I’m dating explosive uteri. I don’t want explosive uteri. I want Katy Perry. Things would just be so sweet and simple and hot.”
Sorry to break it to you Dude-Man, she also has an explosive uterus. May not know it yet, but unlike batteries, those parts are included. Deal with it. And then the other dude’s like:
“Dude-man, I feel ya but DIDYOUSEETHATTOUCHDOWN! PAYTON IN DA HOUSE!” (Sorry, I don’t speak footbaw, but something like that.) *Insert terrible-living-room-end-zone-dance here*. And then you both crack another beer, stick your hands in your pants and wait for the replay. (Not hot by the way, in case you were wondering.)
But since you’re clearly lacking in the intuitive department, lets get back to this hairy-man-baby replay & spell out the obvious.
Everyone thinks I’m supposed to want kids. And I do. I’m awesome with kids. I can even hold a newborn without its head rolling off! (High five?) But NOT YET. Not Today. It would be weird and jarring and wrong right now. But we’re SUPPOSED to want it. We’re supposed to want it bad. (I’m switching to the royal we here for a sec, since I’m speaking on behalf of crazy-woman-kind.) And we’re reminded daily that our eggs are going to shrivel up like little raisins in the sun, and that we need to find “the one” pronto. And I do WANT that. I mean, after a while you get SICK of shitty bizarro dates. And when you look at all of this crap rhetoric us ladies are absorbing, OF COURSE it makes us act like desperate weird trolls when we meet someone who can carry a conversation, isn’t physically repulsive and doesn’t say weird shit cause the conversation stopped.
Just for fun, here’s an example–
Busy posh bar downtown, finance dude: “So I’m gonna toss this coin. Heads you sleep with me now, and tails, you sleep with me later?” Yeah. And then he flashes his canine denture-retainer at me, pops it down and out and right back in again, all sexy like. Really. I swear on my unborn hairy-man-baby, I’m not making this up. It’s no wonder when we meet a normal guy we act a little excited and clingy, and then dude man calls us crazy. Not. Fair.
You know what else causes this 30-something anxiety? I’ll tell you. I accidentally walk into a Wal-Mart and see a massive wave of reproduction happening, from a cross-section of society that should probably all have their tubes tied and nuts chopped for a variety of reasons. (Yes, I’m a snob, but I’m okay with that if you are.) Meanwhile my super-smart-educated-socially-aware and switched on friends are all waiting to reproduce, holdin’ out, because they wanna “do it right,” and are having too much fun being awesome, which is fair enough. Me too. Then this wave of fear crashes over me. The numbers at a macro level are not looking good.
And allllll of that is what the monster in my dream represents. HAIRY-MAN-BABY IN DA HOUUUUSE!!!! (Oh My Diaper it’s gonna shit! Go long! Go long!) It’s this convoluted contradiction of fear and anxiety and knowing I should be more grown up for my age, education and professional level, and I’m not. I’m still acting like I’m 18, having a blast, but scared shitless that I’m somehow sabotaging myself.
Meanwhile a half-brain celled amoeba from the metaphorical trailer park who believes Tebow actually is Jesus and Justin Bieber killed Bin Laden…she’s on a roll. She go hitched at 18, has already popped out 4 soon-to-be-voters, and believes watermelons really do grow on the White House lawn ’cause she saw an honest to God picture, and you’d better believe her husband’s tractor is sexy. But fuck it. I still have an epic ten years of fertility ahead of me and even if I hit up my gay friends for sperm tomorrow, I can’t compete with her. It’s just too much pressure. So all I can do is keep on keepin’ on, punch both Math Brain and Macro-Social-Guilt-Brain into submission, at least for the next 5 minutes, and endure while my date tells me in painful detail, every layer that goes into his mother’s lasagna.
So gentlemen, the next time you dismiss a 30-something woman because she acts a little bit Nuts-and-Needy, (New cereal line brand? I’ll write the copy!) Take into consideration all this rubbish that is probably swirling in her head (Just add milk!), not to mention all the badass independent stuff she’s done in the last ten years and is still rocking. Consider the fact that she may very well be dreaming about terrifying hairy-man-babies and really hating whoever planted that weird-ass seed, while trying to figure out if you’re a waste of time or not, navigating work and friends, and trying to keep her other single girlfriends from slipping into Crazy Town. With all of this on her plate, she’s probably doing an okay job keeping the bat-shit at bay. You can also be flattered if she’s acting a little nuts. It might mean you’re being a tool, but she likes you anyway.
So stop it. Seriously. Stop being a hairy-man-baby, and try to remember a little bit of consideration, chivalry and understanding. It will get you far. It might help tame the crazy, or at least get you laid.