He drinks a beer,
-- imported lest he be confused with
somebody less serious --
turns his dial to earnest and says...
"I don't know any thirty-year-old who wears
twenty-two
as well as you do."
Insert sound of
my frustrated sigh here.
Because,
clearly,
I don't want to be a thirty-year-old
who wears twenty-two well.
The girls who purchase chick lit
can own that title with no battle
from me.
I want to be a thirty-year-old
who wears thirty well.
I want to put this urban SUV in reverse and
jump the timeline to
thousands of years ago...
I would be migrating with the other Cro Magna
up through the dryness of Africa
to the cooler climate of Southeast Asia.
I would already have three or four little
Cave Boy Babies
hanging on my tit.
Maybe even a little Cave Girl Baby to
help me gather plants during the
hot part of the day.
I would have a big, hairy, smelly Cave Man
who would grunt in satisfaction
each night at the hearth.
My breasts would be hanging at my
waist, but nobody would care or
suggest silicone replacements.
Each day, I would
cook the food and gather the wood,
teach the little Cave Babies to survive,
Arrange rocks in pleasing patterns on the ground.
I just want my Hairy Cave Man.
And I promise you,
if you kill meat for me and come home
every night to my hearth
and give me little Cave Babies,
we will be so happy.
And if you really want,
I will even get the boob job.

It is unnatural.
This wandering without a hearth.
It is not how we are supposed to be.
It is not in our blood or our flesh.
All of the words we build up around us
the letters that form self and independence,
goals and "the right one,"
it is unnatural.
Little Cave Babies and raw meat in a dirty fire pit,
clinging for warmth in the night,
That is who we are.
That is what I feel deep in my belly.

Maybe it is time for a different kind of migration.