I have learned in my learnings over my life that each woman is born with a set, finite number of eggs granted to her reproductive system.
This number comes close to, but does not exceed, the force of the North Korean military. Around 1 million.
Still, it seems innocuous doesn't it? Eggs. Pleasant. Wholesome.
No one really talks of them as evil little monsters, waiting for their opportunity to parachute down the fallopian tubes, into the womb, and wreck ever-loving havoc.
Well, that's what I'm here to do.
By the time a girl hits puberty, most of the eggs she was born with are gone, down to around 300,000. The Google did not say outright how this happens, but I suspect she burns them off by frolicking and swinging on swings and climbing monkey bars and not wearing makeup and doing whatever she wants.
I remember when I was a pre-teen I was absolutely desperate to start my period. I wanted to become a Woman.
Let me stop here to interrupt and make a brief note. A PSA, if you will:
If you are a pre-teen girl and you are hoping and wishing for your period to come, you know what you're wishing for? Death. You are basically hastening your own death. Yes, you are. "Hastening" means asking death to hurry on up, and that is what you are doing. The next step after having your period is death. That's the next step. The life cycle goes: Birth, Girlhood, Womanhood, Death. That's the way it goes. Ask women in Hollywood. There are no steps in the advancement of your body after you reach maturity and begin to menstruate. After that, there is death. You start your period, and then you die. So stop it. Go frolick.
I wanted to become a Woman, and what I got was a paintball party in my panties.
Each month, each little egg that lost its turn explodes in a fury of red-hot anger like a prom queen not asked to dance.
It's like the uterus decorates for a party, and no one shows up, and so she just rages. RAGES.
It's like the scene where the scorned woman throws out all her lover's clothes on the driveway and pours lighter fluid on them and sets them ablaze.
Your uterus is essentially tossing out all your clothes through your vagina. She's kicking them off the porch with her high-heeled shoe and standing back with her arms crossed. The arms crossed is the tight knot you feel as "cramps."
On average, women will only menstruate 300-400 eggs during her reproductive years. That either sounds like a whole lot, or very little, depending on where you are in your life cycle and reproductive range.
I am at the end of my productive range. I am 35 years old, and incidents of birth defects increase for babies given birth of mothers over the age of 35.
My menstrual experience - including my premenstrual experience - seems to be getting worse as I age.
My uterus is absolutely fed up, FED. UP., with no one showing up. She doesn't even know why she tries anymore. She's sitting on the edge of an ottoman and crying.
I didn’t exactly reach the age of 35 without baring any children by direct choice. It's just something that happened - or didn't happen - as I stumbled cluelessly along, writing poems, watching television, grappling with anxiety disorder(s) and learning how to make the tassels rotate on my pasties.
I'll admit that in my 20's I didn’t make motherhood a priority, but it's not like I was a career woman.
The dichotomy of mommy-or-CEO is laughable. There are so many more issues other than career advancement that are at play in regards to whether or not a woman has a baby. Actually, it's not laughable. It's small-minded, ignorant.
For whatever reason, what it comes down to for me biologically speaking - and pardon the thick scientific language - is the very simple fact that no one has showed up to my particular womb-party.
Maybe the music's too loud? I don't know.
What I do know is that, with the eyelid of mother nature winking on my reproductive window, I find myself more and more likely to commit murder each month.
I refuse to be the biological clock cliché. I am not actively nor aggressively seeking dates or relationships or marriage. I've pretty much hung up the apron on becoming a mother before my biscuits burn. My biscuits are already beyond golden. They should've been pulled from the oven long ago. Someone with money and wise counsel probably would've done just that.
Anyway, as much as I love videos of baby squirrels in blankets and opposoms drinking from bottles and mother cats adopting suckling pigs and actual human children that aren't loud and don't stare, I actually don't think I would be a very good mother at this time, or at any time in the forseeable future. At least not on the practical issues. The remembering where they are all the time and the knowing what they need kind of stuff.
Still, truths aside, there is my body to contend with, and hormones and emotions, which, with each passing month, are getting closer and closer to Waiting to Exhale territory.
Am I the only one experiencing this on the steep climb toward menopause? I think not. Surely not.
Also, I had bangs cut and they look absolutely ridiculous.