A protest

Unlike my badminton guy friend A., there’s not a single nerve inside me that rouses any curiosity whatsoever to find out how my offspring will look like. I don’t remember any time in recent years that I dwelt on it, much less spent even a fleeting moment contemplating on the faintest idea how my sperm will transform itself thousand times over to become a seven-pounder baby nine months later. While athletic potentials never seem to tire me, I am completely devoid of any interest to discover my talents and skills in the field in human production. It may have crossed my mind before, but it sure faded so quickly as it came. No traces of them are left at all.

It’s not that I detest kids and the sight of them nor do I get repulsed about doing it with a woman. It’s never about these reasons. I sure love kids. I have no problem being surrounded by them and their noise. My finest photos have kids always as main subject. On the other hand, clean female toes as well as shapely waists and long hair still get me to bulge. Worse, the idea may be totally horrifying, but I sure have strolled inside female territories in the recent past. My reasons go far beyond proving I’m proficient in copulating and bringing forth babies in this world.

It’s more of a protest, a personal statement against twisted traditional views that only when one is married or has kids that one lives a fulfilled life. Life’s happiness and fulfillment has never rested and will never rest on a two-hour ceremony before a hundred waiting witnesses while you affix your signature on a certificate that seals your marriage vows with a person. Granting that church rites are kept out of the picture and we talk of having kids outside marriage, it’s still far from convincingly proving that happiness naturally follows.