In which I ramble about children and being remembered, in a feverish ibuprofen haze.

I don't want this blog to become my place where I unload all of my "I'm not going to have children" rants but...

I'm not going to have children, and, once again, I need to rant about it.

When I was out on my birthday, an older friend and I delved into one of those ~conversations~ about my future. I try not to approach those with a begrudging sigh, but come on, guys. I know that I'm 25 and work at a zoo and am not using my degree to it's fullest potential so can we just drop it??? Alright, now that that's out of the way. I mentioned in passing that I know I won't be having children, and that put the emergency breaks on, FAST. I've grown very used to this happening (see: nearly all of my previous posts here), so I rattled off my usual thing about how I know only one thing for certain about my future, blah blah blah.

That explanation seemed to work for her, but she did have one more question that managed to stick with me until I was at the gas station this afternoon and this blog post managed to write itself in my head.

"Don't you realize that when you die, you're going to leave no part of you for people to remember you by?"

To quote the lovely John Mulaney, "First of all; no."

Does that mean that when people think of me, all they think of are my parents? I mean, sure, they raised me well and I'm happy to have them. But... my dad fucked up, big time, a few years ago. I don't like talking about it most of the time (most of the people who have entered my life more recently don't even know a thing about the situation) and I have to stifle a comical amount of anger whenever I'm greeted with a "Hey Meredith, how's your dad?" The concern is sweet and it is nice knowing that when I do need support, there are people out there. Whether the offender realizes it or not, though, they are pushing me more and more back under my parents' shadow, just when I've begun to make my stake in this bizarre world. I'm not saying I'm resentful toward my parents. In the future, when I think back on them, I'm going to remember them as their own people, with their own qualities and accomplishments, which is the least anyone can do for each other. I'm not a perfect person by ANY sense of the word, but the last thing I would want for any children I'd hypothetically have would be for them to be remembered simply as being my offspring.

Going beyond all my daddy issues (ugh, if there was ever a phrase I hate), her question set off the fledgling funny person that lives inside me. I know that for as long as I'm stuck in small-city Pennsylvania, I can't really make any huge strides toward a career in comedy. The instant I find myself in New York (or Chicago), with enough money to live and take improv classes, though? I'll finally be on the path to channeling the comedy I grew up with into something productive.

I'm not flying down some crazy delusional path. I know that the odds of my actually becoming a Weekend Update anchor are ridiculously slim and my 494 Twitter followers that I have now may very well be the closest thing I ever get to "fans." Whatever impact I make here... isn't it better to be remembered by the people who genuinely want to remember you? I'd like to think that if I've contributed something worth thinking about to the world, the people who want to talk about it down the road are going to do so, regardless of whether or not I gave birth to them.

...This was a weird post. I've had three protein shakes and four huge glasses of juice today (along with probably too much ibuprofen) because I have what feels like a sinus infection, minus the actual pressure in my sinuses, and I'm terribly paranoid that it's actually the beginning of this monster flu, and I do NOT have time to deal with that. Anyway. Thanks for reading this mess that is my brain.