In other words, we are not meant to be monogamous. If the end goal is for me to rear as many Mini Me’s as possible and ensure that they live long enough to procreate themselves, then staying with one partner for the rest of my life simply does not serve this purpose.
Let’s start with the male side to the equation. If my domestic partner (I love sounding so 21st century!) Patrick wanted to increase his chances of passing his (super sexy) genes along in future gene pools, then he best not be staying with me for long. He needs to focus on planting his seeds in as many females as possible since putting all of your eggs in one basket is WAY too risky (you hear that, Patrick?).
He got to me already, and I’ll be the first to say our offspring (King) is I-want-to-eat-him-up cute and cuddly but who knows what will come of him in the future? He is a little hefty for his age so who’s to say he won’t prematurely die from diabetes or other ailments caused by being overweight? Therefore, Patrick—being the resourceful man I know he often can be—needs to go out there and hunt for other potential mates. STAT.
Preferably, those mates would be younger than me, like 14-17 young, have perkier boobs (shows that you haven’t had children before), and a more symmetrical face (better genes). Long and shiny hair are a prerequisite (means she is healthy) and she should take light steps with her dainty feet lest someone mistaken her walk for the pregnancy waddle. Juvenile, plump, and glowing in youth…Patrick, I’m sure you will spot many of these out of the crowd.
As for me, I should move on as well if I cared an ounce to make and raise more babies. Patrick had served his purpose and so generously invested his resources (Give. Me. Money. Now.) into this particular family but if he’s to watch out for his best interests, his foot—no, feet—are already out the door. Not that I can blame him since I can no longer compete with women who have never had their uterus stretched out in gross proportions by a Mini Me. Just one look at my feet, my skin, my hands…the tell-tale signs of childbirth are plastered all over me.
So onto the next guy! Maybe he’s on the shorter side and has a slight speech impediment but he is willing to invest (short-term) in giving me one or two more babies and will stick around until most child predators have been warded off. Then he too will ride off into the sunset to search for other (younger) women who are most likely to provide him viable offspring and I will wait in my castle with bated breath for the next male to take care of my family. This time around, however, I’m going with the older man on life support. With no family members.
In strict biological terms, we are pair-bonded at best but definitely not monogamous. So in the grand scheme of human history, this relatively new phenomenon of “’til death do us part” has gotten our heads and hearts spinning as we obsessively search for THE ONE instead of focusing our efforts in finding the best one, FOR NOW.
Liberated because I know how things should be, I feel empowered to make life choices based on what I want them to be. And you know what? All spiritual and emotional aspects to love and loyalty aside, I still think ‘til death is sexier than the progressively decrepit guys that’ll come knocking on my door. I’m such a diehard romantic, aren’t I?