Baby Battered

I'm sitting at the bar, enjoying my lunch of a wrap and natty light and feeling the cool breeze on my face as it blows through the open windows from the street. It's a lazy Friday afternoon and the overcast skies do little to encourage me to go back to work. It'd be worse if it was seventy-five and sunny out, but not much. CJ, our bartender, comes over to check on the food she delivered five minutes ago and make small talk.

"How is everything?"

"Excellent as always. What's new around here?"

"Nothing much."

"That's what you say every time."

"I guess I lead a boring life. You know, the bar, the husband, the kid."

"How's the kid doing by the way?"

"She's good. She's starting to move around and get into things. I can't keep track of her. She's just all over the place. You don't have kids do you?" That exact topic, much to my chagrin, has been a point of contention around the old homestead as of late. And it's not that I don't want kids, I just don't want them any time soon. I'm not ready to trade in my freedom for the responsibilities of raising and teaching. I'm getting an intern at work, isn't that enough?

"No, not me," I said shaking my head furiously back and forth while waving my hands in front of me like I'm flagging down a train. "I'm not planning on doing that for a while. Twenty-six is way too young."

"Really? I wanted to get kids out of the way now so I could enjoy things later in life when I have money."

"I think I'd rather be poor and enjoy my life now. You might have the money later, but what good is it going to do you when you've had a knee replacement to go along with a trick hip and a bum ticker? You know, that Hoveround is only going to get you so far."