I’m 32. I’m single. I’m adopting a cat.
I get the picture this paints. “He’s given up,” or “Poor Scott, he must be lonely.” The moment you hear of a single person adopting a cat, you see that person lying alone in his apartment, dead, while the cat slowly eats his face. The headline reads, “Kitty Eats Single Man’s Face.” You immediately become that annoying suggested article at the bottom of websites.
Why is it that adopting a dog is a sign of personal independence, but a cat implies that you’ve given up? Even worse, that stupid idea that getting a dog is a good first step in seeing how you’ll be with a kid — how many kids do you have to stop from eating their own shit? I can see a monkey being good training for a kid, or even pig — filthy, they eat a lot — but a dog? Sorry, you’re kidding yourself.
This negative implication adopting cats inspires is just a cover for the real issue: that unlike generations before mine, they mostly never had to deal with being single into their 30s. You got married, even if you knew it wasn’t right for whatever reason — gay, bad match, family obligation, religious reasons, etc. The fact is you got married no matter what or became a spinster or homosexual, whether you liked it or not. Who would willingly be alone into their 30s?
When I was a kid, I never saw myself married. Admittedly, a lot of that has to do with being a gay kid in the late 80s and 90s. Everything in my world told me that finding a husband (a totally foreign concept then) was never going to happen. I knew I wanted to entertain and make people laugh, move to New York or Los Angeles, and have a kid. Yep, a kid.
I saw myself raising a child alone, and still do. Ever since I was a teenager, I’ve said, “If I’m not in a relationship by 40, I’m going to have a kid on my own.” 40 seemed very far away then. It’s only 8 years away now, and well, things are pretty much turning out exactly how I planned.
A. I’m a professional comedy writer, working on a TV show.
B. I’m a stand-up comic and storyteller.
C. I’ve lived in New York.
D. I currently live in Los Angeles.
It’s fun to buy into what the media says, that you’re suppose to look a certain way so that you can attract that special someone and have all the sex. That’s an amazing fantasy, and it totally happens for some. I’m not jaded enough to stop looking for love, but I’m not going to let societal pressure define the life that I want and live, nor should anyone.
It’s in this spirit that I’ve decided to name my cat after an independent woman that had a child out of wedlock well into her 40s: Murphy Brown. Her boldness was so strong that she got the Vice President of the country at the time, Dan Quayle, to criticize her. How bout them apples?
So sorry haters, Murphy Brown and I are going to live our 9 lives any way we want, even if it ends in her eating my face.