Lonely Pathetic Woman Inhales Too Much Baby

Mmmm baby smell. Wait, let me back up. I'm sure I've lost all the guys by this point anyway. I have a long history of saying the word baby just so I can see men's asses, running as fast as they can, as if their shoes are on fire, leaving tracks like Back to the Future. Works like a charm. Except it sucks.

I just got home from a co-worker's baby shower. And I went to the shower a little punchy anyway. It has been one of those frazzly, stressy days where I spend every minute running from a meeting, to a meeting, watching the clock because my meeting is running over and I'm late for another meeting, and finding 10 minutes to shove a burrito down my gullet. God bless Mexico for inventing burritos. And whomever invented sour cream should go straight to heaven. I hate days like today. While each individual meeting has a purpose, the whole of the day leaves me feeling quite helpless. I can physically feel the emails piling up. The work that's not getting done just taunting me and my lack of ability to do anything about it.

So, punchy. I got to the shower a half an hour late because of a meeting, a meeting that went over an hour and so I was late for a phone meeting. Needless to say the phone meeting didn't happen. And I simultaneously love and loathe these things. Let me just for a minute or an hour tell you what I love. I love the baby clothes, the cute, soft little blankets wrapped around the tiniest socks ever invented. It's all so cuddly and precious and goddamn fucking adorable. Ohmygod! And then the baby. The baby. The BA-BY! That baby, like all babies, is just the most perfect little ball of perfection. Little toes and little mouth and little cheeks. I just want to gnaw on those cheeks. Those little cream puff cheeks. Gah! And do not get me going on baby smell. Baby. Smell. I could just inhale the top of a baby's head until the day I die. In fact, that's probably what will kill me. Overdose of baby smell. I can see the headline now: Lonely Pathetic Woman Inhales Too Much Baby. Yup, that's how I'll die. Good good in hell I love the smell of babies. That smell makes me want to stuff an infant into my uterus, curl that little smelly angel under a wing and sing Disney songs. In other words, baby smell makes me a mad woman. You've probably already gathered that, but this is a very real affliction. There is a chemical reason that women my age go batshit when they smell the top of a baby's head. It's so they'll start popping out offspring like pez.

And that brings me to why I hate these things. Baby Showers. It just makes me feel...lost. I can't help it if I want a baby like Charlie wanted a golden ticket. I can't help it that baby smell makes me batshit. I can't fucking help it and I can't do a damn thing about it short of investing in a turkey baster or stealing some unsuspecting infant from the grocery story (which, don't worry moms, I won't do). Maybe I can hang out in front of fire stations and hope for some unfit mother to drop one off. I've tried the Target! No luck there. I refuse to go to the WalMart on moral grounds. I mean, my dad always told me he got me at the baby store because I was the cutest one. But where is this damn baby store? I think he may have lied.

I exaggerate for effect of course. Of course. But, in truth, I do want a baby. I can't help it. It's a disease. It's called baby fever. And I am a single woman, with not much income, without much family, and absolutely no hint of a possibility of that in my future. It's just not going to happen right now or anytime soon. And I'm starting to realize that it could be a very real possibility that this just won't happen for me. Ever. And I really don't want to hear the older ladies coo like I'm a whiney child, "oh honey, you're pretty, it'll happen." blah blah blah. Like pretty has anything to do with anything. Like it has nothing to do with only attracting men who think babies are some kind of fungus. Only you can't eat them. Or smoke them. Bummer, right? What else is there in life?

More than food and partying, I tell ya.