I went back and forth with whether to blog about this or not, but in the end, this blog is about my life, and, well, this is life. If you don’t want to read terribly personal things, just skip on by and tomorrow will be right back to lightness with the Friday Follies.
I was pregnant.
And now I’m not.
Before anyone worries too much, I wasn’t very far along at all, we weren’t planning or “trying” for it, the event itself passed without the need for a doctor, and frankly, having children wasn’t exactly high on our list of priorities. In other words, I’m mostly ok.
Thing is, once you get to a certain age, being physically confronted with the fact that those years you spent trying *not* to get pregnant might have been the very last years you could *stay* pregnant, is just odd, no matter how ambivalent you might have been about the idea of children the week before.
It feels a little like having “expired” stamped onto your forehead, and it’s making me a little crazy.
Have I made the right choice? Do I really suddenly want a child, or is this some hormone-induced bit of guilt? Am I really just frightened of getting old?
Well, yeah. Despite how awesome I think my Gramma is, I also see some frustration under the surface with what she can no longer do, and that does scare the hell out of me. Aging might be better than the alternative, but it still sucks.
In a society that values youth and beauty so much that women routinely put themselves under the knife or the needle to “improve” themselves, what does it mean to age gracefully? Is there even such a thing? Graceful? Is that really the best we can do?
What if that’s all a bunch of crap and we should just keep right on running, flying, burning that candle at both ends because what the heck IS age, but the number on your driver’s license?
Or is that what people call a “mid-life crisis”? Is this some other hormone-induced bit of guilt?
Then again, maybe that’s just it. We don’t, so we have to be our own.