There is nothing inherently wrong with late 30s ladies looking to sperm banks. If you’re determined to have a baby, the unsentimental route seems preferable to a desperation marriage.
Yet, this Times story about three women who all met Mr. Right just as they were about to inseminate themselves with the same mystery donor’s seed—and got a chick lit book deal out of the situation, naturally—makes me want to beat someone with a turkey baster.
I couldn’t make up a more buy-film-rights scenario if I tried.
“As for Ms. Greenberg, she had always thought she’d be married with a child by the time she was 35. Instead, her first husband had left her for his 20-something personal trainer that year, then dragged her through a nasty divorce (though she emerged with a $10 million settlement). Suddenly single, Ms. Greenberg traveled, meditated, became a journalist — and then, somewhere between getting her navel pierced and having a fling with a sexy parking valet, she started thinking that if she didn’t meet someone soon she might have a baby on her own.”
Traveling and meditating clearly being the key to female happiness…oh, and a wad of cash doesn’t hurt. Eat, Pray Love with more jizz.