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.

logic vs. webmd

For the last ten days or so, I have been Experiencing Symptoms:

  • Droopingly tired throughout the day
  • Peeing ALL THE TIME
  • Sore boobs
  • Constantly, ravenously hungry

.. you probably know exactly where this is going, and you wouldn’t be alone: every single website on the entire internet thinks I am pregnant. Google says I’m pregnant. Facebook says I’m pregnant. WebMD says I’m pregnant and also cancer. Wikipedia said I was pregnant, but the article was deleted because [citation needed]. The point is, every time I get curious about my symptoms, everything says there’s but one reason for it all: totes knocked up.

Doubt is an insidious thing. Even though I know in every fibre of my tired, hungry, sore-boob’d, hafta-pee self that I am NOT pregnant and can’t possibly be knocked up because SCIENCE, I was still tempted to seek out a stick to pee on just in case. I had myself almost convince that the whole of the internet was right and I was mere minutes away from learning first hand how babby was formed when one sprang out from betwixt my nethers. I was dealing with the near panic attack that followed these thoughts when I caught myself being an idiot, and stopped. I took some deep breaths, and used some good old fashioned common sense to look at each symptom rationally .. and I found that every one could easily be explained away without any kind of embryonic sacs whatsoever.

  • I’m frequently exhausted because I stay up too late every night
  • I pee all the damn time because I drink Diet Coke and water non-stop
  • My boobs are sore because it’s fucking cold at home and in the office so my nipples are at DEFCON 3
  • Skipping lunch at work means I’m faint with starving when I get home

See? All perfectly logical reasons for all my symptoms, with nary a fertilized egg in sight. Still, I might be a *little* worried. I just need to keep repeating logic to myself, and maybe go to bed at a reasonable hour for once. Nice try, internet. Team No Babies 4 lyfe.

apropos of nothing, but look! pretty lights!

flux

I find I’m spending most my time these days waffling between extreme nothing and extreme OH MY GOD THE WORLD IS ENDING. After six days of nothing (hence my radio silence), I’m suddenly awash in apocalypse and frankly, I don’t care for it.

I’m being vague For Reasons, and I apologize. Additional details will be forthcoming as soon as I get everything sorted out one way or another: you’re either going to get a lot of whining that things are horrible and boring, or a lot of freaking out that I’m in over my head and I don’t know what to do. So, one of those. Happy mediums are for pussies.

Since I can’t fully make words of my current catastrophes, here are some things I have been thinking about lately:

  • After many years of being a die-hard fan, I’ve taken down the various Dresden Dolls prints I had in our house. I still love the band and have many fond memories of the Strong Feelings I experienced while listening to their music (not to mention a raging girl boner), but .. frankly, I’m tired of Amanda Palmer. What was once a massive crush and adoration has aged badly into some hardcore eye-rolling at the never ending antics. It feels as though everything she does is an Antic, and I just don’t have the energy or spare time to keep up. Too many words about everything. Too many videos. Too many TED Talks, too many “LOOK AT MEEEEEE” moments, too many terrible poems about people in the media. I’m tired of every word and movement being a call to arms to her fans to give, and I’m tired of the SO NAKED aren’t you shocked at my audacity and I’m tired of the ukelele. Just .. tired. I’ll always love the Dresden Dolls, but I’m a little over Just Amanda.
  • I’m worried about my womanly tubes. My Weapon of Spermal Destruction expires in September, and I have to either a) get it replaced, b) have it removed and free ball for a while, c) remove it and go on another form of birth control, or d) have The Conversation about getting my fucking tubes tied already. I’m not looking forward to any of this, really, and I’m also over-thinking things a lot. Like, more than usual. As in:
    • In my experience, doctors refuse to tie tubes because they assume women are fickle creatures who will change their mind re: babies the instant the procedure is done. I’d like to yell “BULLSHIIIIT” from the top of my lungs and do a dance and wax many poems about why this is stupid, but .. is it? It seems like I know far too many people who were once proud soldiers of Team No Babies, but one day they DID change their minds and now babies everywhere. It’s hard to argue against the idiotic notion of “you’ll change your mind someday” when I’ve seen it happen first hand – assuming that it’s not fucking ridiculous in the first place to paint all women with one very narrow brush – so how can I tell my doctor the idea is wrong when most of the time, it appears to be right?
    • Am I refusing to have babies out of sheer stubbornness? What if I DID change my mind but I’m refusing to acknowledge it because I don’t want to be one of those women who changes her mind? My god, what if everything I am today is simply because I’m too pig-headed and stubborn to follow the rules? Who am I?
  • That one worries me, because I know myself well enough to know that if one day I woke up and said “hey, babies”, I wouldn’t go through with it because I’d be embarrassed to change my mind. Yeah, I’d deprive myself of (according to some) the reason for my existence, just because I’ve always said otherwise. Can I stick to a plan, or WHAT? Seriously, though, I’m not having babies and you can’t make me and even if one day I did want them I wouldn’t have them because FUCK YOU IT’S MY LIFE MOM NOT YOURS.

Fantastic. I’ve made it this far in life as a 14-year-old emo kid with no end in sight.

Too much heavy thinking for a Tuesday – I’m going to go buy some makeup to fool myself into feeling pretty.

i may never know