Five Ways In Which I’ve Failed My Caveman Ancestors

The Woolly Mammoth at the Royal BC Museum, Vic...

This is terrifying. There’s no way I could coexist with one of these.

I think about cavemen a lot. When I say a lot, I mean there was a time in my life when I pretty much didn’t think about anything else.

Any time my life gets difficult, I think about cavemen running away from saber-toothed tigers and killing mammoths with sticks and icicles, and I realize that I’m a giant pansy and that I need to step it up a level. Usually, instead of inspiring me to do just that, thinking about my caveman ancestors pushes me into a funk that I can’t get out of, and I go home to hide under my covers and try not to think about how those very same ancestors would probably use my tender, weak muscles in a stew. (Assuming cavemen had stew, of course.) It’s enough to make one consider creationism, just to avoid facing the cold, hard truth.

Here are the ways in which I’ve failed my cavemen ancestors:

1. I’m 20. If I was a cavewoman, I would be ancient at this point. I would be the alpha female of an entire caveman tribe. Instead, I am pretending that adulthood is not careening towards me by living off my parents’ dime for the most part. I can’t function in the real world. For example, I don’t even fully understand what APR financing is. Doesn’t that seem like a thing you should know?

2. I tell people all the time that the only way I’d run is if something was chasing me. For my troglodyte ancestors, this was a daily occurrence. Even if you were a gatherer and not a hunter, if there’s the constant danger of something with teeth larger and pointier than yours chasing you, you stay in shape. I lose my breath walking to my classes on the third floor. If I was a cavewoman, my family would just leave me behind for the good of the tribe.

3. I have no children. This is really a good thing for me, as I have a list of over 200 reasons not to procreate, but a 20-year-old cavewoman with no children is basically a paleolithic social pariah.

4. I can barely toast a Pop Tart. My fire-building skills are tragically sub par, and I’m pretty sure I couldn’t clean a goldfish, much less a woolly mammoth, or whatever cavemen ate. Scientists are always down on cavemen for their smaller brains, and sure, I’m probably better at blogging than a neanderthal, but if we were trying to cross a land bridge and populate a continent, I would look really stupid compared to that same guy.

5. I spend a lot of time every day attempting to smell like fake flowers, lose all unwanted body hair, and clean my teeth. Those are hours of daylight I could be using to gather berries or hunt giant sloths, that I’m instead using to appear as un-caveman like as possible. That’s not how you help your species achieve world domination. That’s right: if I ever had to deal with a caveman, I would be Pinky and he would be the Brain.

Quite frankly, I’m an embarrassment to my caveman progenitors. I’m soft. I hope no one ever invents a time machine so that my ancestors don’t have to see how weak and infantile I am. I’m going to go do some push ups.

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