At the time I am writing this blog post, I am in my late 30s, and my German wife is in her early 30s. Virtually all of our friends have procreated by now, and some have even gone so far as to bring two or more tenderly-diapered sex blossoms into this world.
I don’t get it. My wife doesn’t get it. We’re just not quite there yet. We’d rather pursue our career goals at this time — which is not to say we won’t someday have the audacity to combine our mutant genes into some horrid half-German, half-American, cloven-hoofed freak of nature — but now is not the time. I want to finish writing my novel first, and my wife wants to finish her PhD. Despite the warnings of every fertility clinic in Germany, we’re going to wait until we’re damn good and ready before we mix our DNA into an unholy slap across God’s bearded face.
That said, a couple of our very good friends down in Baden-Württemberg are going to have a baby. They’re expecting to fart it out somewhere between August 22 and September 22 of this year — meaning it’s zodiac sign will most likely be Virgo. Personally, I don’t see the connection between the day an infant comes rocketing out of a vagina and, say, the orbital position of Mercury, but whatever; it’s fun to think about. Anyway, since I was barely paying attention to the fact that our friends were expecting a baby in the first place, I asked my wife for the 10th time when it would be born. She told me the due date was early September, and then clarified its expected zodiac sign, saying:
“Their baby will be a Virgin.”*
ME: “Well, I fucking hope so.”
*(From the German star sign, “die Jungfrau,” meaning “the Virgin,” or “Virgo.”)
Thank you for reading and have an awesome day!