How Much Longer?

When you're a kid, you're always on the countdown.  Every second of every day is one inch closer to something better.   And, every detail is worth noting.   For instance,

If you're nine years old, you're not just nine.  You're nine and 3/4. That's practically ten, and ten is double digits.
That seemingly insignificant fraction is the detail that says, "I'm one quarter away from being a big deal".

Your upcoming birthday isn't just in two months; it's in 64 days thankyouverymuch.  

The second week of school is never "the second week of school" either; it's "170 more days until summer vacation".  


When you're an adult, countdowns like that don't exist.  It is easy to forget on Tuesday that your birthday is on Wednesday.  And, I'm pretty sure Christmas occurs about two days after Halloween (give or take).

For me, those optimistic, childlike countdowns are rare. My wedding was the last one I can remember. Practical countdowns are more common, such as the number of days left to clean the house before company arrives, or the number of days left until you have to turn yourself in.

The most prevalent countdown I have is more of a doomsday version.  My fellow senior citizens -- I'm old at heart -- can relate to the doomsday countdowns.  Think weekly prostate exams or how much longer until you aren't able to eat solid foods.  For me, these countdowns toward misery include (theoretical) dentist appointments and expired eggs.  Mostly expired eggs.  And, always around my birthday.

When I turned 30, my doctor told me I was on the fertility countdown.   Apparently, by then, I used up 90 percent of my "good" eggs.  I imagined the remaining 10 percent had poor vision, damaged follicles, and might be in need of hip replacements. 

The next day, I got my first white strand of hair.

Is there a worse emotional state to be in as a woman?

You're crying tears of thirty, you're obsessing over egg counts, you're horrified by old lady hairs, and you're second-guessing your logically structured family plan.

Many women in the South are encouraged to get married and have babies right after high school.  Just like many women with careers are encouraged to wait until they make partner before settling down and hiring a surrogate.  Of course, there is an in-between, where women are encouraged to either pick a career or a family or both.  And, if she takes too long to do either, well, she must be gay. 

According to my calculations, at age 32, I have about three eggs left.  Two of which I'm sure will contain chromosomal abnormalities.  Why?  Because I think, therefore it is.

Right now, my expired eggs are living in my rent-controlled ovaries with their 1979 decor, watching The Price Is Right, and talking about the good old days when my cervix was full of zest.  They use my fallopian tubes like an aluminum-can telephone to gossip about my uterus (she's so empty inside).  I can hear them sometimes.

But, the more I learn about the gross stages of pregnancy and the various things I'm expected to clean up as it oozes out of my baby, the longer I want to wait.  I enjoy my selfish, fly-by-night lifestyle.  I enjoy that I can be out of the house in five minutes, that I can sleep through the night uninterrupted, and that the only bodily fluids I have to worry about are my own.

Parenting is a sacrifice.  A sacrifice of independence. Sure, it's "rewarding" and all that jazz, but this is one area where I'm happy to delay my gratification.

I'm not going to get bogged down thinking about me in my forties at the elementary school watching my kid pick his nose during a school play, while my friends laugh about all the hard times ahead of me; they do that now.  This is one countdown I can't worry about.  It's secondary to the more important countdowns, such as obtaining my degree and having a stable job.  Only after those deadlines will I begin that scary countdown sequence toward my last days of freedom.

I'm in no rush.