Subverting Darwin

In the olden days, they would have taken me out back and shot me.

That's what I thought one day last week when I was getting dressed to greet another soul-free day of non-profit strife and I happened to catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror before I put on my trousers.

My hips, I observed, were lopsided. My left leg was turned completely inwards at an absurdly acute angle while the right leg, though toothpick-like in girth at least stayed ramrod straight. My feet, desperately flat and practically caving in, resembled two dead fish encased in a pair of argyle socks.

I won't even get started on my shoulders and my pigeon chest, covered in sporadic tufts of hair resembling broccoli that's gone past its prime.

As I regarded my grotesque form in the mirror, I thought to myself, "Damn, there's a body that has subverted Darwin."

If Darwin had his way, I never would have lost my virginity or found a forever-mate, and, really, if it weren't for lemur-like leaps in fiberoptic technology, I probably wouldn't have accomplished the latter. For the former, I have only college to thank and, really, almost everybody gets laid in college. On those glossy, full-color brochures, they should dispense with the lush photo of the auburn-haired co-ed reading a book underneath an autumnal oak tree and replace it with a picture of a twin-sized bed with the sheets askew, blotted with tell-tale stains, perhaps with some wadded-up tissues scattered around the cheap Ikea rug for good measure.

Getting back, though, to Darwin, that bearded bastard could not possibly conceive of a world where somebody like me doing anything other than dry-humping the sofa was a good idea. What could somebody like me possibly have to contribute to the idea of strengthening the gene pool? My outlandish bone structure? How about my elephantine-proportioned proboscis? No, it's the annoyingly Jewish propensity to possess post-nasal drip, allergies, asthma and the incongruous inability to enjoy eating sandwiches made with mayonnaise.

If Darwin were in charge of the Mating Game, he would give me a big FAIL. And, really, in the golden olden days, I would have failed. I would have been relegated to some depressing "seashore house" for "invalids," my flat feet confining me to a wheelchair, my asthma confining me to an iron lung, my dry wit confining me to a lifetime of exchanging pornographic letters with Oscar Wilde. And, really, that's all there would have been of me.

Enter: The Internet.

That's right, Darwin, you hairy, funny fuckhead. You didn't count on the internet, did you? It's how I get to be a writer. It's how I got to be a husband, too.

And, God willing, it's how I'm going to be a father.

No-- we're not buying a Chinese baby-- I just mean, like, it started the series of events that will hopefully culminate in me being a father. You know, because I met my wife online. And, like, we do it sometimes, and, I mean, hopefully, one of those times will result in my squiggle-wiggles attacking her ovumesque thing and then blorpie-doo baby time.

What?

There's lots of people out there who probably shouldn't be having kids. I mean, look at Max Headroom. I doubt Darwin would have been into that particular arrangement. But we're all imperfect beings in one way or another. Sure, my skeleton is probably dangerously close to a medical oddity, and, after I die, my wife will probably sell it to the University of Pennsylvania Medical School so she can fund her undying lust for clothes from Anthropologie, but that's okay. I don't mind. My osteoquirks help make me special. I remember going to the podiatrist once when I was eighteen to get fitted for my first pair of orthotics. I took off my shoes and socks and stood there in front of him and he wrinkled up his brow and said,

"Jesus Christ-- I don't even understand how you're able to stand up!"

I mean, the fact that I'm able to do that obviously means that I'm pretty fucking cool, right? I mean, if I weren't married-- you'd totally be into that, right? I'm like a walking, talking miracle. The fact that I live, breathe, am mobile and on a mission to procreate and make awkward babies is just a total face-fuck to Darwin, every day that I'm alive.

Take that, Motherfucker. In your beard.