I Don’t Think Obamacare Will Help Me on This One

My “What I Did Over Summer Vacation” essay would’ve been all about reading sperm donor profiles. I really had a go at it for a while there back in June.

There was a lot to look at. Despite the myriad ways you could narrow your search, I sorted for only one criterion: light eyes. I don’t know why. I guess because, if it was just gonna be me doing this, I wanted the kid to look sort of like me? It’s one thing to be able to say, “You got your daddy’s eyes,” but another to say, “Those baby browns must come from Donor #139704.”

I probably read through 75 profiles. Starred some, Xed some, and left the maybes alone.

Then I started teaching again, and it seemed like too much to ask, to work all day then come home and decide the other half of my child’s DNA.

So I thought, fall break. I’ll do my research over fall break.

Last week would’ve been a perfect time. My only responsibilities were cooking, finding wayward shoes, playing cribbage, and avoiding getting goosed.

But I didn’t do it.

And I’ve been home since Tuesday night. I bet I’ve refreshed my Facebook feed 87 times over the last few days. Why haven’t I devoted ten minutes to this project? Grrrr. Rarrrrr. >:(

I was unloading all this on a friend last night, and at one point, I said, “I just need somebody to help me choose. I need a partner.”

Ah. The Catch-22. I need a partner to help me choose sperm, but if I had a partner, I woulda done chose the sperm—his.

And it really is hard to do by myself. Do I go with “No Mascara Necessary” (seriously, that’s how they tagged him), who has stunning eyelashes and an insatiable appetite for learning? Or the shy Cillian Murphy look-alike who loves acting and painting?

Who am I kidding? I’m not going with the Cillian Murphy look-alike.

cillian-murphy1
Dude looks like a serial killer.

There are a million other profiles to go through. It’s about as much fun as online dating. Which is so much fun. I really think it’s overwhelming me. That’s a real issue.

But there’s a bigger thing, and it’s this: when I sit with myself for five fucking minutes, when I listen to the tiny voice I’m always shutting up by going to Geer Street, trawling Jezebel/Gawker/Wonkette/repeat, front squatting, and eating when I’m not hungry, what always bubbles up is incredulousness. I can’t believe I can’t find someone.

I’m a cool cat! And I’ve grown out of my homely phase, I think!

W.

T.

MFing.

F, y’all.

I think ultimately what’s stopping me from buying vials of jizz is that tiny voice nagging, “This can’t possibly be how it’s supposed to go. This is a glitch in the matrix. Tech support will work out the kinks, and you’ll have a man in your bed who’ll provide you with all the sperm you want free of charge aaaaaaaany minute now.”