It’s a helluva thing, not breeding. After the rumble strips of that mad all-night, balls-to-the-wall, hands-in-the-air, caution-to-the-wind rollercoaster ride that is your twenties, you hit the thirtysomething stretch, and suddenly the road to the future reaches that almighty fork in the road where the signs point in two directions: Breed (Population 6 Billion) and Not Breed (Population: 2). Seemingly innocuous get-togethers become rife with pitfalls and eye-opening moments, like ‘How much were you dilated?’ as you’re casually leaning over to retrieve the saltcellar so you can chuck a Tabasco omelette at your hangover. And then it hits home. They’re not asking about the size of your pupils after a long night’s rave. Oh, no.

It’s interesting to watch the shift in priorities that occurs in one’s peers over the age of 30, hell, it’s a downright phenomenon to behold and a testament to the power of our urge as a species to breed. That rosy-cheeked mom over there in the corner? A thirteen-double-vodka-and-cokes-in-a-night kinda gal she was, with all the blurry cellphone snaps of her flashing the cops at a roadblock to prove it. The dad in the corner currently dandling his firstborn on his knee? Teaser’s best customer till only five months ago. God knows how Lolly Jackson’s going to put his kids through varsity now that one of his most valued guests is on the straight and narrow. The domestic goddess in the demure empire-line floral number spooning pureed butternut soup into widdle Zen Okra Narwhal’s screeching mouth? The scourge of Ibiza two summers ago, with more notches on the bedpost than Amy Winehouse has had alcoholic beverages. And the rather respectable bespectacled gent discussing comfort-fit nappies with his dowdy librarian-looking wife? Last we saw of him he was weakly fending off the amorous advances of a muscle mary in the shadowy recesses of a notorious local leather lounge. Yes, things certainly have changed when you look around and realise that a particularly virulent strain of Parentiasis has miraculously passed you by. Next stop: waiting for the divorce fallout. What can you look forward to as a thirtysomething non-breeder? Phone calls at 4 in the morning from freshly divorced casualties of domestic warfare, replete with the obligatory drunken confessions that he/she never loved him/her and he/she was crap in bed and has run off with a taebo/yoga/Pilates instructor/secretarial floozy/transvestite waxidermist/[insert bizarre post-separation recovery shag here].

Yes folks, that’s what you get folks, for makin’ whoopee. Now, my wife and I, well, we don’t wanna breed. We just wanna practice. Because why? Because practice makes perfect.

This article also featured in HisLife on iafrica.