Oftentimes, the uncomfortable subject of kids will come up between my girlfriend and I. While I'm not opposed to kids, as a rule, I'm smart enough to realize that if my girlfriend and I were both working professionals and had no responsibilities we could have it all: Condo in the city, eating out all weekend, summer home by the lake, timeshare in Mexico. My girlfriend and her pesky ovaries always get in the way of my Posner-esque thinking, however.
Yesterday, I was trying to relate to her how Meg Ryan in Nora Ephron's films is the apotheosis of every woman's struggle with "Just the 10 of Us" maternal instincts and "Sex and the City" independence. This spun out of control as I debated the Yin and Yang of modern day womanhood through the prisms of "Everyone Loves Raymond" and "The King of Queens."
At the end of my rant, I finished by saying, "See! We couldn't have this conversaion if there was some kid here. He wouldn't have a clue what I was talking about. Who wants to drag some ignoramus around?"
To which my girlfriend replied, "Well, as far as I'm concerned, you just had a conversation with yourself. So, what do you care if extra people are running around while you give speeches?"
