I will be the pattern of all patience; I will say nothing.

As if heeding a chemical call in the air, my friends are, one at a time, slowly but surely, succumbing to the infliction known as pregnancy. It’s freaking ridiculous to see the number of babies and pregnant ex-classmates on Facebook. And of course, the million-dollar (these days, indeed) question rears its ugly head again. Am I missing out? Will I regret not reproducing?

I’ll admit that now I’m not as revolted by the idea than I am just unwilling to bear responsibility for another living thing. I like that I can just up and leave anytime I want. I like that I don’t have to worry about diapers and changing and nappies and night feeds. I love that I don’t have to work very hard. Yes, it would be nice to have a mini-me. But it’s a nice to have, not a need to have. At this point, perhaps I put my biological clock on snooze so many times it’s not going to ring anymore. I can live with that.

Just like all those years ago I declared I can live without continuing piano lessons. Some days I wish I can play something. Some days I wish I didn’t have to turn on iTunes for music. Most days though, I’m fine without it. My friends with kids tell me triumphantly that it’s different when it’s your kid. There’s something magical. It turns your life around, you’ll be happy. It’s natures way of dealing with post-purchase dissonance: instinct. No species will survive without instinct to multiply and ensure survival.

But it doesn’t stop me from thinking how I’d bring a kid up if I had one. (It often convinces me that I really shouldn’t, seeing how I took some 20something years to appreciate my childhood, and the even more severe lack of patience I have compared to my folks.) Theories swirl. I compare it to how I was as a kid. What I would do differently.

I will be the first to admit I led a semi-charmed childhood. No major complaints there. But I do wish I was more self-assured. I wish I was confident enough to disregard anyone else who didn’t matter. I wish I knew who really mattered. I wish I took myself less seriously. I wish I was confident of myself enough to have been more straight forward. I wish I was more steadfast. I wish I was more honest. I wish I knew myself better.

I wish I had said something to the bloke who sat next to me while we watched Back To The Future II. I wish I’d asked about him all those years later.

I wish I’d said something to the fat fella who gave me a clump of little blue rosettes. I wish I said something to the small-eyed classmate. I wish I could’ve called it quits with That Kid on my own terms. I wish I didn’t have to rely on The Geezer for growing up, but I suppose since I wasted my youth on him we’re even. I wish I took a stand with The Fanboy.

Ah well. What would growing up be, if it wasn’t rubbish to begin with?

So until I get hit in the face with an epiphany, the world’s best counter-argument or a heavy-handed case of hormones, I guess this status quo is what I am satisfied with.