Everywhere I look these days, women are sprouting babies.

Three of my colleagues are pregnant. My youngest sister has three kids. Her friends have five, eight, maybe a dozen. Who can keep track?

I sometimes feel defective because my biological clock never ticked. “How could you not want children?” my relatives ask. But years ago, I saw the puddles of drool and the long strings of snot, and I thought “not for me.”

Today I feel vindicated. One of my fellow bloggers has reaffirmed my decision to be blissfully barren.

Sure, I’ll have no one to care for me when I’m old. But that’s OK. It beats gaining 60 pounds, retching in your yoga class, and attacking the fine public servants at Taco Bell.