I love taking long car trips. There’s something about the open road, an iPod full of music no one else will listen to, and the prospect of hundreds of miles all by myself.
I car dance (once I drove through the whole state of Georgia doing the shag); I sing at the top of my lungs; I roll down the windows and blast the heat. I also have conversations with myself. If I need to work my way through something, I’ll pretend I’m being interviewed or I’ll have the conversation with another person. Y’know, except the other person isn’t there.
I swear I’m not crazy.
So, a few weeks ago when I traveled to South Carolina for the weekend, I had several conversations with myself. And one of them was, “Why do you want to start a family?” And I had trouble answering it. Isn’t that just something you do? I’m programmed to want a family. I… I… I…
I’m still having trouble answering it. Why do I want a family? All of my answers have to do with me. I’m not sure that’s necessarily bad – but I thought I’d be a little more, or perhaps – a little less self-involved.
After I saw my parents – the same parents I have not seen nor spoken to since my grandmother’s funeral in November 2007 – at the local Whole Foods, I realized there is one very very selfish reason I’d like to start my family right this very minute [insert foot stamping here]: maybe my mom will come back. Now, folks, how fucked up is that?