I got off the phone with Mom a while ago after making her sit and wait patiently while I dumped my weekly baggage on her for an hour. In between my monologues, she took the opportunity to mention, again—as if my life isn’t already complicated enough—“You KNOW, you’ll be turning 29 soon! Oh my goodness!” Blah Blah. And once again she reminded me how my eggs—you know, my eggs—will only still be fresh for about another year.
“It’s just a fact,” she harped. “I was talking to my-friend-the-OBGYN about it. So many women make the mistake of thinking ‘they can wait’ and that everything will be perfectly fine and then they end up in trouble!”
So then I suggested that for my 29th birthday she and Dad pay to have a few of my eggs frozen. You know, a long-term security deposit, like buying a CD or a mutual fund or something.
“Ummm . . . sure. Daddy and I would pay for that,” she stammered. “We’d do anything for you.”
And this short story by Idra Novey makes me think of what I’d be like if I had lived in Latin America in the 1970s.
*Images are all from Wiki Commons, and I sure hope they’re on the public domain. Click the image to go to the source.