Start with "Monday" if you can (Doesn't your company give time off during the Grand Slam Tennis Events?) So what were we talking about? Oh right. The competitive nature of infertile women. “My hair is all extensions. My breasts are all implants, My nose is a remake of Katie Holmes’, but those eggs, Sista, all came out of this body right here."
I think that elderly broads like me… (those of us who thought it would be convenient to apply for our child’s Social Security card and our Social Security benefits simultaneously, inquired if Medicare covered prenatal care, or if AARP had any daycare discounts)… are especially proud of using our own eggs.
In the time of my life when gravity has brought my boobs to its knees, (well to my knees anyhow), and kicked my butt to the curb (at least that’s what it grazes against when I’m walking down the sidewalk), it’s gratifying to know that some part of me hasn’t deteriorated completely.
Though that was a few years ago. I’m sure by now my ovaries are functioning solely as a back-up bin for my colon, to store excess fast food. I guarantee if I got pregnant today, in nine months I’d give birth to an eight pound six ounce bouncing baby McNugget.
Of course I never even considered I might need to use someone else’s eggs. Who does? When you live in the booming metropolis of Denial USA, population zillions, who ever thinks their own eggs won’t be good enough?
I don’t think anybody thinks that far ahead. It’s hard enough to admit you can’t get pregnant let alone that you might need someone else’s eggs.
Personally I think I’d prefer a stranger’s to eggs from someone I know. Especially relatives. True, I don’t, at the moment, know anything about the stranger. But I do know everything about my relatives. It’s not that genetically there’d be any issue.
Mostly it’s that not one of them would ever let me forget that they did me that one little favor.
Every birthday, every holiday, for the rest of my life, I’d have to attend everything, provide all the food, help them dress, walk their pets, wash their cars and be the valet parking (including backing out all the cars from the driveway because the one in front wants to leave the party at two in the afternoon so he won’t hit traffic.).
Their opening and closing line to every conversation and argument would be: “If it wasn’t for me…” Well, that’s the scene if they lend you twenty bucks, anyway. I shudder at the image of my life, should one of them ever hand over a body part.
Listen, I gotta go. I put laundry in the dryer a week ago. Now I need a scissor.