“You know you’ve got less than 10 years of reliable fertility left. If you want to have kids, particularly more than one, you really need to be thinking about that.”

That was my doctor’s message of the day to me. Your biological clock is ticking, dearie, even if you can’t hear it.

I know it was her own public service announcement. She sees epidemic levels of infertility in her office every day. So who can blame her for trying to head off another case at the pass? “People see actress in their 40s having babies,” she said. “What they don’t tell you is that it’s all donated eggs, donated sperm and lots of money.”

The thing is I’m 26. And about as ready to hear that as I was to organize a coup of a small South American country. I don’t even have pets. I have plants. And sometimes, I forget to water them. I’m not going to lie. There have been casualties.

So I did what any sane twenty-something woman would do under the circumstances. I left the office, bought myself a doughnut and tried not to think about it – which is really not working very well.

What the heck is a generation of women facing warring biological and fiscal realities supposed to do? A tiny house in a questionable neighborhood is upwards of $800,000. Private school tuition – something many families in the L.A. Unified School District consider a must – runs in the $25,000 per year per kid range. And let’s not even get into reliable childcare. I don’t know anyone anywhere near my age that can afford that.

We can afford doughnuts. And plants.

So the next time anyone asks me, “When are you guys having kids?” I’m going to hold out my paper cup, like the guy on the street corner trying to scrape together enough for some coffee and bus fare. And the next time my doctor brings it up, I’ll ask for a donation.