35

No one warns you about thirty-five.

Previously sparse and hastily plucked gray hairs stick out defiantly, taunting– “we will always come back and we will come back stronger!” My hair is littered with them, and I’m mesmerized, a sick fascination.

My ovaries (I think I still have them) seem to be screaming at me continually– “you’re running out of time.” But I don’t want a baby.

But I do.

But I won’t.

When you’re grieving over the reality of never having your own little bundle, babies spring up everywhere, flipping the bird at you and your barren uterus.

I’ve been imagining my lady parts slowly shriveling like grapes in the sun. I’m an aging bag of raisins now. Not sure if this is better or worse than yesterday when I was a giant pile of pudding skin.

The neighbor women are all young and bouncing babies on their hips. They meet and go for walks together. I cry to my husband that I’m never in the “clubs” and he jokes of needing to “take care of this baby problem.” A baby mafia…or something.

My hands have become those of my mother’s, the one bright spot in all this nonsense.

So this is thirty-five. But I know how I like my coffee, and when I look at my hands, I see my mother’s.

 

 

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