A Funny Thing Happened On The Way To My 41st Birthday (Thursday)

So what were we talking about? Oh right. I was at my first appointment with the Reproductive Endocrinologist, trying to convince him that my reproductive organs weren’t as old as they looked, and he’s pretending to listen and write stuff down without the pencil making contact with the paper. So there this doctor is, behind his desk, feverishly jotting down my comments in his “air notes” as he chants statistics at me. Apparently at forty years, three hundred and twelve days old, the likelihood of me being elected President of Guam, receiving an invitation to join the Boys Choir of Harlem or getting my face minted on a coin were far greater than me ever conceiving a child naturally.

I found the news extremely disheartening especially since Guam doesn’t elect a president, the Boys Choir of Harlem was disbanding and my nose wouldn’t fit on any coin--not even one of those giant chocolate ones.                    

I also was confused. In the Bible people who are thousands of years old are begetting all the time. In Hollywood too. I looked around the doctor’s office. I sensed that I wasn’t going to find a poster that said “You’re not getting older, you’re getting better”.

No, I’m pretty sure to the conception community I was just getting older. In my overwhelmed, freaked out, psychotic state, I temporarily separated myself from the doctor’s voice and created a mental list entitled: “At forty-oneish, what else I’m now too old to ever do for the rest of my life.” 

1) Be on American Idol. (If I could sing, I’d be pissed.) 

2) Join the military. (I tried the Reserves when I was thirty-six. They asked me if I had any kids who might be interested.)

3) Be a ballerina. (Substitute “dance” for “sing” and ditto on the American Idol comment.)

4) Attend a Jonas Brothers concert alone without attracting suspicion from “Missing and Exploited Children” workers.

5) Be a high-fashion runway model (If I was 5’10 not 5’3” I’d be pissed).

6) Be an Olympic gymnast. (If I was 4’8” not 5’3” I’d be pissed)

7) Be a sixty year old rock star’s girlfriend.

8) Be called an “aspiring” anything without it sounding pathetic. 

9) Be a trophy wife.

10) Have anyone ask to see my driver’s license at a bar (except maybe a cop as I’m speeding away from it.)  (If I drank I’d be pissed.)  

11) Have anyone under seventy call me “Young Lady” without me wondering what they’re selling.

12) Be the “other woman” without his friends asking him if I had money.

Suddenly, in the distance, I heard the doctor say: “Mrs. Fox, are you listening to me?” I suspect I heard him on the third go-round. Most professionals don’t snap their fingers in your face as if to awaken you from a trance on the first try. As I emerged from my murky self-pity fog, the doctor was suggesting we explore my options. My first question was: “I have options?”

Listen, I gotta go. Our lazy mail lady has a box for me. If I don’t go get it, she’ll push it out of her doorless truck with her foot as she drives off. I’ll talk to you tomorrow…