The more I think about it, the more I think I'm ready to be a father.
It's not that I want a child or think that it's responsible to bring children into this world, I just keep finding myself identifying with dads. And that's weird, because the most fatherly things about me are that I'm very particular about my grits, and sometimes I run out for cigarettes and completely forget to go back home.
I also have what some might call a Dad Bod, though I don't think that's entirely accurate. After all, Dad Bod is when a chunky hipster who buys beard oil sleeps on a bare mattress on a floor surrounded by an ever-growing shrine of empty PBR cans. I just look like a slightly overweight dude who's about to scold a child, because I don't have dad bod so much as I have the actual body of a father.
To put that in perspective: I know a few guys who have what the internet refers to as Dad Bod. But if they showed up alone to a playground, someone would call the cops, because—for entirely valid reasons—society frowns on hefty single dudes showing up alone to a place where kids play.
I, on the other hand, have Father Physique. So I could show up to a playground, walk up to a crying child and sternly say, "If you keep crying, I'm going to give you a reason to cry"; and even that child's own mother would have to stop for a moment and think, "Wait, is that mildly overweight light skinneded man my baby daddy?"
But it's not just what I look like. I am legitimately concerned that I'm slowly morphing into someone's dad. Because the same day I looked down and realized that my belly had grown a little larger, I heard "Peg" by Steely Dan play on the radio for the first time in ten years, and I suddenly realized that I knew all the words.
After that, a Doobie Brothers song came on (and to be clear, it wasn't just any Doobie Brothers song; it was was a Michael McDonald Doobie Brothers song). And even though I could only ever understand half of what that blue-eyed soulster was singing, I still found myself humming along.
Then, a Luther Vandross song came on and I turned to no one in particular and said, "Mmm. See, y'all kids don't know nothin' about this right here!" And before I knew it, I'd gained five pounds and every single one of my car radio's presets were programmed to stations dedicated to Smooth Jazz, Old School R&B, and Classic Rock (or, as it's known amongst people over 40, "Regular Rock").
At this point, I'm pretty sure my biological clock is telling me it's time to throw a baby in my girlfriend, but every time I bring it up to her she comes at me with some bullshit excuse like, "I need to finish grad school first," or, "I really want to focus on my career," or, "Excuse me, but I don't see no rings on these fingers."
So I guess we're waiting for now. But that's fine, because I did the math, and her IUD expires in exactly 11 years, 5 months, and twelve days. So until then, I'll just clench extra hard every time I cum in her and keep my fingers crossed that my semen is slightly stronger than copper and/or hormones or whatever kind of contraption she had shoved up her uterus.