In this blogpost, I am going to have a frank and open conversation with my uterus. Squeamish gentlemen may take warning.
Dear My Uterus,
It was over thirty years ago that you first, rather obnoxiously, made yourself known to me. During the first years of those monthly visits, I'd lie abed, lightly dosed on Tylenol and my mother's soothing instruction to "just go with it" while you contorted yourself up in a childish insistence for recognition. "I am here!" you hollered. "Pay attention to me!"
"Yes, mistress uterus," I sighed into the pillow gripped to my midsection. "I hear you."
Years passed. I discovered the halcyon bliss of birth control pills which silenced your yawp. Mostly.
I wed. I stopped taking the birth control pills and I asked if I could store a baby in you for a while. You declined. It's OK, uterus, I'm not mad about it anymore. I got my baby without you and I couldn't have asked for a better one.
We've had a cordial relationship these past 10 years or so. Monthly, you stop by for a visit. You've been less obnoxious. You sort of stop by and say, "Hey. Still here. How are you?" And I sigh and say, "Fine. You're here. Whatever."
But hasn't this relationship run its course? In my 20s I often greeted you tears of elation; in my 30s it was tears of loss. But now, here in my 40s, all that's left is weary resignation.
I don't need you to feel young and relevant. I can kid myself that I am still that because I like Vampire Weekend and sometimes put blue streaks in my hair. Am I lying to myself? Who cares. I don't need you to make me feel young. Frankly, I'm cool with middle age. I feel like I make it look good. Am I lying to myself about that? I repeat: who cares?
Dear My Uterus, I am tired of your monthly pronouncements.
Take a hint, my uterus.