A Letter to My Biological Clock

Dear Biological Clock,

I hear you.

You think you’re being all sneaky but you’re not. I’m onto you. At first I thought it was just because I am in France, so of course babies are cuter here. They speak better French than I do and it’s so adorable when they say “maman” and “coucou.” But it doesn’t stop there. I am being magnetically drawn to anything pint-sized, be it baby or puppy or even the tiny boxes of crackers at Carrefour. I don’t enjoy it.

Whenever I see a baby in a stroller or inexplicably strapped to its mother’s back (because apparently baby-as-backpack is the thing to do over here) I can feel my ovaries skip a beat. I am hypnotized. But no more! Stop it! I’m only 21! It is too soon for these sorts of shenanigans.

Listen, I’m just asking that you work with me here. Give me some time. I need to figure out my life and, you know, be a real person who doesn’t use their dad’s credit card instead of their own. But, tell you what, get back to me in five to ten years and we can reevaluate, ok? Glad we could have this chat.




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