Let me explain how I wound up with a kid. I was talking to this woman — I’ll call her Bangs, because she had great hair — at a party. Because she has cool hair, writes funny essays, and was brazenly smoking pot through a personal vaporizer at a swanky fashion party, I wanted her to think I was equally interesting. So there I was, desperately trying to relate, while she talked about her real, living child, and how stressful it was to be a parent in the Internet age. As I tried to form non-boring thoughts and sentences, I could see that Bangs didn’t care. She was scanning for a conversational exit. Until this moment:
Bangs: I mean, it’s absurd that my toddler can use an iPad.
Me: Oh, I know, totally. I worry so much for kids.
Bangs: Oh! You have kids?
Me: Oh … Yes!