this is a throw down a hoedown

Timehop has reminded me that I utterly failed the prime directive: I was never supposed to replace my hardware; I was supposed to demand a traditional tying of the tubes. When I first got the WSD in 2008, I was evidently still way too young and immature to say I didn’t want children, and clearly couldn’t be trusted to make such a monumental decision on own. I reluctantly agreed to having a tiny sperm warrior shoved all up into my nethers, and hoped that by the time five years in the future rolled around, I’d be able to find a doctor who would take me at face value.

Then I forgot all about it, and I completely forgot to bring it up at any of the four appointments with three providers I had leading up to last Thursday’s cervixical (a word now) hoedown.

I thought about this a bit yesterday morning, and I think I know the problem (beyond my not bringing it up; that one is entirely on me): all the doctors I’ve seen ARE taking me at face value, and that face is not of a woman dangerously close to 40.

Science <tm>has irrevocably proven that three things are true:

  • Fat don’t crack
  • Black don’t crack
  • Asian women look 30 until they’re 60

Any one of these traits is powerful enough by itself, but I’ve got two of them working in my favour: I’m fat AND Asian, and also don’t look or act my age. This is less a humblebrag than it is fact sharing, but it’s not just my glowing youthfulness throwing a wrench into my uterus: I have the wardrobe and makeup counter of a spoiled tween. Every once in a while (but not often enough), I get kind of embarrassed for myself and think that maybe I should trade my awesome, ridiculous, rainbow-filled and nerd-happy wardrobe in for some twinsets and pearls, but that makes me sad. Same for replacing my glittery neon makeup with matte neutrals and mini-dresses with pantsuits and mom jeans: probably should; don’t wanna.

I need to start prefacing all my Important Decision doctor appointments with my age: don’t let the glitter and Dalek dress fool you; I’m almost 40 and therefore hopefully running out of time to “change my mind someday” about wanting children. I will not change my mind when I am older: I AM older. I don’t know if science has pushed back menopause while they expanded the baby window, but if I’m still in danger of getting knocked up by the time this hardware expires/I decide I want it out, I am going to be really pissed.

I do enjoy that my age is somewhat of a mystery, though. Earlier this week I made a Cheers reference at work (because what else can you do when presented with a guy named Norm), to which my boss replied he didn’t think I was old enough to know of the show. Cheers ran from 1982 to 1993, and while it’s flattering to imagine otherwise, there’s no way I look that young. I’m an ambiguous 30 at best. Also, I’m very likely older than my boss (which actually makes me look REALLY bad, given the tumulticity (also a word now) of the last 8 months).  Oops.

I do wish this headache would go away, though.


There are three things I want very much, and any one of the three would make the other two impossible or at least highly problematic. How do I decide?

For the sake of Science, let’s assume that whichever thing(s) I choose I can do without hassle (because all I’m really doing is entertaining high fantasy anyway). There are many logistical things like “money” and “details” and “Ed” that would require sorting out, but this isn’t a depressing exercise in realism: it’s 100% thought masturbation. As long as we’re all on the same page about that, I can count on everyone to not be so rude as to introduce facts and logic and cold water to my wishful thinking, right?

So, here’s the situation: I turn fucking 40 next June. If I drank, I’d be drinking right now: even admitting to MYSELF how old I am makes me queasy; blurting it out to the internet at large makes me want to throw up and cry. I am old. This depresses me.

To help me forget my extreme elderly state and so I can enjoy the little time I have left on this planet, I have decided I need to do something special for my birthday. Really special. “Common sense and consequences be damned” special. After all, I only turn so, so, so old once, so I may as well enjoy it in a way that is much more spectacular and memorable than tacos and cake for dinner.

I have three spectacular and memorable things specifically in mind:

I miss Sasha. I know that I can never replace her, but I also know that none of our current cat army are “mine” – I miss having a cat who adores me and wants to be all up in my area at all times. To that end, I want to adopt a calico cat or kitten. I know there’s no guarantee that I’ll have another Sasha-like relationship, but getting another calico (who’ll be female coz that’s how they work) would be a big comfort to me. Since I’ll be turning so incredibly old, being comforted would be nice. It would go well with my dinner at 4pm and slipper shuffling.

I still very much want a pug. In fact, I had previously set up a deadline of “pug by 40”. I don’t know if Ed still thinks I’m joking or if he’s ignoring the issue in the hopes I don’t make it to the deadline, but I’m very serious: I want a dog (preferably a pug but I will also accept a French Bulldog) and I want one next June and there is no negotiation about this. I have been waiting for my pug for a VERY LONG TIME. Enough stalling; make with the dog already. PUG.

LONDON (and maybe other parts of Europe too but let’s face it mostly London)
You may not know this, but I very much like London and I would like to go back. It seems fitting to me that I celebrate my descent into doddering senility in my favourite place of all for a long time – all of June, actually. I want to birthday like I’ve never birthday’d before by spending the entire month overseas, living a ridiculous life of European splendor and Instagram photos of old buildings. Some idle research on my part showed me that this is not that outrageous a thing to want: I could do it quite easily, and for far cheaper than I thought. It’s also the easiest thing of all on my birthday list to do, and the thing I want most of all .. right now. Ask me again in ten minutes, and my answer will change.

Any of those things would make for a giddily happy birthday to me. Using my pretend science (hell, even using real logic and facts), not a single one of my potential birthday plans are impossible or even all that difficult. I could throw caution to the wind and demand all three, but that’s just greedy: I’d settle for one. But which one? I can’t decide. Taking a crazy trip seems like the obvious winner, but would that come at the expense of my insane longing for a dog? If I got a dog, I wouldn’t be able to get any more cats .. but if I got another cat, I’d be putting off the dog-getting for another 15+ years. I could go to Europe for my birthday and adopt a new best friend when I return, but for reasons I am married to I don’t see that happening due to whatever anti-justification excuses come up at the time. The thought of never having a dog makes my insides hurt. The thought of no best cat friend makes my insides hurt. Not being in London now or making a concrete plan to go next year makes my insides hurt. My insides are OLD and can’t take all this strife: what do I want to do?


Help me, internet. Grant me my ridiculous daydreaming and fear of getting old and help me figure out some fun I can work towards.