I Can Barely Take Care of Myself: Tales From a Happy Life Without Kids
Jen Kirkman
Language: English
Pages: 224
ISBN: 1476739943
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
In this instant New York Times bestseller that’s “boldly funny without being anti-mom” (In Touch), comedian and Chelsea Lately regular Jen Kirkman champions every woman’s right to follow her own path—even if that means being “childfree by choice.”
In her debut memoir, actress and comedian Jen Kirkman delves into her off-camera life with the same snarky sensitivity and oddball humor she brings to her sold-out standup shows and the Chelsea Lately roundtable, where she is a writer and regular performer. As a woman of a certain age who has no desire to start a family, Jen often finds herself confronted (by friends, family, and total strangers) about her decision to be “childfree by choice.” I Can Barely Take Care of Myself offers honest and hilarious responses to questions like “Who will take care of you when you get old?” (Servants!) and a peek into the psyche—and weird and wonderful life—of a woman who has always marched to the beat of a different drummer and is pretty sure she’s not gonna change her mind, but thanks for your concern.
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things like ‘You’ll change your mind.’ I’m sick of it and I feel like I don’t fit in.” I don’t know what I expected my therapist to say—probably her usual: “Was there a time in childhood when you felt like an outsider? Is this pushing any old buttons? You know if it’s hysterical, it’s historical.” What I didn’t expect was that she’d say, “You don’t want kids? Why not? What’s up with that?” What’s up with that? “Oh no,” I said. “Not you too! You’re going to tell me I’m weird for not wanting
what about now? Now? When I turned thirty-five, I finally shook off most of the “fear of life” that had gripped me since before MTV was even a thing. The Day After, my parents, and Eastern Airlines are not to blame for the neuroses of my youth. Clearly, other children watched that movie but were comforted by Sting’s end credits song, “Russians.” I just happened to be wired to develop panic disorder, depression, and anxiety. Youth was wasted on the young in my case—but I am not going to waste my
silence to be moved by my sentiment—and briefly wondered whether he would have preferred it written in my blood. I walked up to his door and at the last minute realized that just dropping the book off would leave our fate up to chance. I wanted to present the one-of-a-kind Superfudge to Thomas in person, watch him read the dedication in front of me, and then collapse into my arms with cries of, “You’ve changed my life! I was such a fool to let you go. Come inside my apartment and come inside my
on the box. I didn’t hit “womanhood” until I was fourteen years old. And once I did—all I wanted was to run back to girlhood and not have to wear what seemed like a small neck pillow between my legs five days out of the month. My postmarriage weight gain forced me into a new daily uniform: stretch pants with a beach cover-up/tunic that covered my butt and the tops of my thighs. It was comfortable and I never had to face the reality that my skin didn’t fit into my usual clothing. Stretch pants
card debt. I’d just added another couple of hundred bucks to my MasterCard to have that queen at the chichi salon shave my head. I’D PASSED MY college years spending money on important things like tapestries for my bedroom walls and cigarettes for my lungs and now it was time to tighten my belt buckle—or at least to get a belt. The good thing about moving back home with my parents was that they weren’t the type to try to teach me a lesson by charging me rent. They probably had more fun just