I wish I were a 35-year-old woman with a baby. That’s right: female, 44% of the way through my life, and with an infant in my care. I’ll explain why.
35-year-old women with babies have the easiest lives in the world. A 35-year-old woman with a baby can spend hours on end at work talking with other 35-year-old women with babies about what it’s like to be a 35-year-old woman with a baby. As long as there are enough managers in the company who were once themselves 35-year-old women with babies, nobody minds that she’s wasting company time. In fact, it’s almost encouraged. But if a childless 25-year-old guy like me spends hours on end innocently drinking tea while staring out the window, he gets in trouble.
Being a 35-year-old woman with a baby is a Get-Out-of-Any-Situation-Free card. Feel like leaving work early? Just say the baby has a “doctor’s appointment” (wink, wink). Show up late or forget an appointment entirely? Blame it on the forgetfulness that plagues all 35-year-old women with babies. Finding yourself bored at a party? Just pretend the babysitter is calling your cell phone, and say there’s a problem with the baby. Pulled over for speeding? “Sorry, officer, I was just rushing home to be with my baby. And as you can see, I’m a 35-year-old woman.” Bam, no ticket.
Being a 35-year-old woman with a baby would make it easier to write this blog, too. I could just write about whatever the hell was going on with the baby, and there would be a ready-made market of other 35-year-old women with babies ready to make my blog the next hot thing. What I fed the baby today—blog post. How to deal with spit-up stains—blog post. What kind of pants I’m trying to find for my one-year-old—1000 words in a cinch. The damn thing would write itself. And they would love it. I could call it Tammy’s Supermom Blog.
Instead I have to try to pull ideas out of thin air like a schmuck. Society is unfair.
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