On Choosing No Kids: “But, Who Will Take Care of You When You’re Old???"

(You dumb shit???)                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                 Forwarded this email? [Subscribe here]() for more [On Choosing No Kids: “But, Who Will Take Care of You When You’re Old???"]( (You dumb shit???) [Ash Ambirge]( Sep 15   [READ IN APP](   “But, who will take care of you when you’re old (you dumb shit)???” I cannot tell you how many times I’ve heard, in my 39 years, this fun-filled booby tassel of a question muttered in the air, hanging there awkwardly, as if the asker is, perhaps, the President of a hot new club called the “Don’t Let Anyone Make Mistakes They Will Regret!!!!” club, or perhaps they’re actually Ben Franklin reincarnated because we all know Ben was just FULL of sound, moral advice. (I appreciate this theory???) Or maybe they’re getting their PhD at Harvard because they are clearly superior in critical thinking skills and maybe they just wanted to practice being PhiloSoPhiCal while nibbling on finger sandwiches and pretending to know how to fasten a cufflink. The Middle Finger Project with Ash Ambirge is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. [Upgrade to paid]( Ah, it’s fun merely being a peon with hot sauce on your tee-shirt! I don’t know how anyone actually expects me to do any kind of long-term planning when there’s another piece of pizza I can dip into a liquid cayenne river of my dreams. Priorities, right? Fortunately, they have come along at the perfect time to save me—and force me to consider the error of my ways in choosing not to have children. It will be pivotal! they think. Just wait until she gets a load of this question! And then the question is dropped right on my neck like a guillotine—and this is the moment, right here, that’s supposed to be the be-all, end-all of this debate for centuries to come. A supercilious smirk spreads across their face. They give themselves a quiet little fist pump. They think they have achieved victory! Because—who can argue with the fact that we all get old? And, as logic would seem to follow, we thus need younger, fitter, healthier, not-addicted-to-meth offspring to take care of us when we do? GOT YA! they think. And that is when I put the laxative in their coffee. --------------------------------------------------------------- I’ve been thinking about children for thirty years. Parenthood. What it means to duplicate yourself, and whose life you’re living once that happens. This, in itself, is 1,000 Substack posts. (And don’t worry, I will write them ALL.) But, what I will say right now is this: it was never okay to just not want kids. I had to have reasons for not wanting kids. Because, without a legitimate reason—one that would pass muster—that would have to mean the only other explanation: that I was flawed. Silly me, foolish girl, when will she grow up? The only other logical explanation was that I hadn’t truly considered the repercussions. I could not be trusted to make this decision on my own. I was not capable of long-term thinking. It was as if I needed to be coached; guided; nudged, like some dud chicken nugget. You know, the grey ones? That are like rubber? And just kinda bounce? Nevermind the fact that I have more maternal instincts toward a Klondike bar than I do human babies. That’s another fun object of debate: maternal instincts, and the idea that they MUST be in there, hiding in the corner, just foaming at the mouth to hear a newborn cry. Surely I am wrong about those, too: maybe, they will say, I am not leaning into my divine feminine energy enough. (I will slice their tires.) Maybe, they will say, I just haven’t given it a chance. Oh, how I love all of this worrying on my behalf! So anyway, I was sitting here just RUINING MY LIFE when [this article from The Guardian]( popped up on my feed and it’s about shit-ton of women in London who just decided to buy a whole block of apartments and SHARE THEM IN THEIR OLD AGE. And, I thought: finally, we are finally doing interesting things. It’s not an “old people’s home,” because it’s run by the women themselves. It’s not a shared co-living house, because everyone’s got their own apartment. It’s not a harem, because there is no Prince Harry at the center of it all. (Though we all wish.) Rather, it’s a conscientious decision to create and foster the kind of community where you can live and feel supported—even if you don’t have kids, and you don’t have a partner, and even if you’ve made unconventional lifestyle choices that have meant you never quite settled down. These chicks are out there changing each other’s light bulbs (not a euphemism), and encouraging each other to exercise, and popping round for a glass of wine, and buying each other’s groceries when someone’s had a knee replacement. You always have someone to take a walk with, if you want. You always have someone to go to dinner with, if you want. You always have someone to help you figure out how to set up the telly, if you want. Sort of like college! But, you also have the option of telling everyone to piss off while you go watch forty-two reruns of Outlander in your bed—which is a biggie for me and anyone with a pulse. I mean, these women are even out here with car sharing clubs, can you imagine?! That’s an excellent cost-saving concept and also makes me ragey with envy. I always thought about how cool it would be to share a car with other international travelers who are often spending time abroad (and thus don’t need a car full-time), and then I remember that we already sort of have that, and it’s called ZIPCAR. (I used Zipcar weekly when I lived in Philadelphia, despite the fact that there were always huge piles of sea salt stuck in all the seat cracks, which I strangely felt nostalgic about, since Philadelphia is THE home of the soft pretzel, and yes, I am EXTREMELY BITTER that we are known for our cheesesteaks when honestly cheesesteaks AREN’T EVEN GOOD.) Reigning it back, reigning it back in. Okay, deep breath. In sum, what these women have here is a support ecosystem—and, not to stand up on my weird little soapbox on my weird little stage and clear my weird little throat and mention that, in my weird little voice, this is the same kind of support that everyone else in the world is hoping to get from their kids. (You know, the fantasy that your kid is going to be your best friend and you’ll do everything together? Except then your kid turns out to be an actual human with their own lives and families and careers and STDs to treat? That must be a real disappointment, banking on the fact that your kid is going to be awesome and then they turn into an insufferable little p-p-p-rick.) Am I saying this is THE answer for all of us poor, lonely souls who aren’t parents? Of course not. Obviously there’s always the option to become independently wealthy and buy a villa and live out the rest of your days in Italy wearing flowy dresses and eating things you can’t pronounce, which is pretty much MY plan. But, I am saying it is one interesting answer that can lead to other interesting answers—if only we’re willing to get creative enough. And care enough. And be brave enough to try new things. (And not making decisions that aren’t right for us now in some heroic attempt to not have regrets about things later.) Because, living your life under the constant pressure that you’re “not doing it right” is the best way to waste every good second of it. So, if you’re someone making unique decisions in order to end up with the most effervescent, vibrant, interesting life you can make for you??? You aren’t wrong. You aren’t flawed. And you aren’t weird. You might just be the most fascinating fucking person in the room. And that kind of person? Always finds their way. Even if they have hot sauce on their tee-shirt. And a handful of pretzel salt up their rear. The Middle Finger Project with Ash Ambirge is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. [Upgrade to paid]( You're currently a free subscriber to [The Middle Finger Project with Ash Ambirge](. For the full experience, [upgrade your subscription.]( [Upgrade to paid](   [Like]( [Comment]( [Restack](   © 2023 Ash Ambirge 177 Huntington Ave Ste 1703, PMB 64502 Boston, Massachusetts 02115 [Unsubscribe]() [Get the app]( writing]()