(Start with "Monday" if you can. After all of the hoopla of National Infertility Awareness Week, we'd better ease ourselves through the week or we'll all get wicked dizzy headaches. And if you'd like some more dizziness on the weekend, kindly subscribe. It's like one of my ex-boyfriends: Simple, easy, and no strings attached.) So, what were we talking about? Oh right. The craziness, the out-of-control goings-on during National Infertility Awareness Week. Every year, it's more and more like Mardi Gras:
Millions of infertile women standing on balconies, lifting their shirts- Tame compared to what we "flash" at every doctor's appointment.
Please. By the second month of treatments I was so over the embarrassment, I started unzipping my pants in the elevator.
By the time I got to the receptionist I was in my bra.... So party hardy Mardi Gras....Where the hell are my beads?
Not to imply in any way whatsoever that we're a bunch of ho's, but until I set foot into a fertility clinic, I think I didn't truly appreciate the prostitutes among us.
Before treatments I probably would have said: "Oh my gosh! How can a woman do that? It's so dangerous, and dirty, and degrading!"
Two months into treatments I saw a prostitute on my way to the fertility clinic. I waved from across the street: "Have a nice day! Hope you get some good tippers!"
Not only had I become so unfazed by everything, I figured: "Who the hell am I to judge? I'm probably naked in front of twice as many men as she is."
I didn't consider myself high-class because my men (and women) all wore lab coats. (For all I know, half of them had nothing on underneath.)
I mean I went to two different fertility clinics and saw a littany of different doctors--Not to mention the anesthesiologist-- and I can't really be sure who else might have visited me below my Mason-Dixon line at some point or other.
So, all things said and done-The prostitute probably saw more familiar faces than I did.
And, then of course there was the financial transaction: I didn't pay my fertility clinic in sweaty, crumpled cash... And she didn't pay her men $40,000.
On the other hand...if they got her pregnant... she'd probably be pissed.
Listen, I gotta go. I have to retrace my steps. About an hour ago I started writing a post about National Infertility Awareness Week and lost it somewhere in the gutter... on the seedier side of town.
I'll talk with ya again tomorrow.