I grew up with a mother who never, ever, under any
circumstances, discussed her age.
I’m not quite like that. I am usually OK with discussing my
age. I think part of it is because I don’t feel my age. 41. Is that right?
Sometimes I still have to count backward. So 41 must be the new 21. Or 31. Or
whatever. It’s something younger than I feel, that’s for sure.
I’ve become this person who rolls her eyes at Millennials with
their perfectly timed and planned Instagram posts, their uber-catchy phrases
and their ignorance of the pop culture influences of my own youth. Get off my
lawn, dammit.
But I’m pretty sure it’s not bitterness that plagues me,
when I really start searching my soul about it. It’s jealousy. They have
something that I don’t.
Time.
Sure, those of you older than I might think I’m young. I get
it. I remember dreading turning 28. I was SO old. The 41-year-old me would like
to punch that girl, by the way.
I’m plagued with regret about the time I’ve wasted beating
myself up, being uncomfortable with my body and planning for a “thin future.”
The time I’ve spent thinking of all this seriously would add up to decades.
But now I have a new regret about my wasted time—and I’m
even more aware of my age. Because I very much hope one day to be a mother.
I’m not sure how much of this journey I’ll share with you,
but considering I lean pretty heavily toward the overshare side, I’m sure
you’ll hear more.
For now, I’ll tell this. This week I saw a doctor to talk
about my options and how I could increase my chances of being a mother at this
later age.
We talked about my age. My past issues with all my…parts.
And my family history.
And then we talked about my weight.
The truth is that I knew it was coming. I wasn’t surprised.
She was so gentle and kind about it. So lovely. We want to increase every
chance of you getting pregnant and then having a successful pregnancy, she
said. And then she referred me to a nutritionist.
I mean, look, I have gained some weight back. And even if
not, I never got less than 50 pounds away from my goal weight anyway. So yeah, I expected it. But man, it hurts.
To think that my weight isn’t just holding me back from my
life, but it’s possibly holding me back from birth. The question remains—is this
enough to compel me to change? Damn, I sure hope so.
Because now, I’m not the only part of this equation.
I was never
good at math, but I’m pretty sure that makes it a hell of a lot more important.
