When I was in my late teens and early 20s, I thought that the “biological clock” all women talked about was something brought upon them by peer pressure – wanting to fit in with the rest of the women entering mommy-hood. Except that’s not true. It’s called a biological clock for a reason.
I have NO control over this thing. It ticks and tocks all through my day, making itself known quite abruptly at times. There I am, strolling down the toilet paper aisle at Target, making serious life decisions (12 double rolls vs. 24 single rolls), when a frilly, lime-colored, pint-sized dress of perfection screams my name from across the store. And as I ooh and ah over the cuteness of it, I can almost feel my eggs diving off the edge of a cliff somewhere deep inside me, convinced they are unneeded and unloved.
I wish I could tell them to just hang on a bit longer. And by “bit,” I mean however long it takes one to find the man of one’s dreams, enter couplehood with said man, get engaged, get married, travel as husband and wife, and start having kids.
Dear god…no wonder the eggs are depressed enough to jump.