I woke this morning. Did the usual, shower, dress, fed the fur balls, tanked up the car and now I sit at work.
I just looked up at my desk calendar. SHIT! I just entered my last 30 days of preparation. 30 days of being in my 30’s. My last 30 days of hoping and dreaming of a future that probably will not be.
I suffer from IF. Who really cares what my damn birth certificate says. What matters most is what my insides say. What matters most is the reality that they are turning 40. They are on the last legs of this feminine journey.
Let me clarify. I am carefree. I have never once gave a crap about what age I was. I never cared that I was in fashion or today hair is short or now we wear it long. I am a brown-haired, blue/green-eyed girl who is most comfortable in t-shirts, jeans and a pair of sneakers. I was carried out of the bar on my 21st birthday by two bouncers and placed on the curb…. Yea, you have it right, it was one hell of a night. My 25th was spent in Toronto. My 29th I was newly married and spending it with my love. On my 30th birthday, we poured the footing course, for what is now our home. On my 36th birthday, our son was conceived.
My uterus and all of its friends are turning 40!. Worst birthday ever!