Mammofest Destiny (with my mind on my boobies and my boobies on my mind)

Chatting with the mother-of-two-bestie about a mutual mom friend’s mystery lactation (mutual mom friend started lactating after holding someone’s newborn despite having stopped breastfeeding 18 months ago).

“Wow she’s materrrrrnal, for reals,”  she said in disbelief, but then added, “There are stories of women who start lactating when they found a baby starving. May be myth but I think the body is capable.”

FullSizeRenderOf course I know with my virgin boobs, such miracle is not possible. (By virgin, I mean, never given birth.) The breasts, these breasts, these beautiful mounds of flesh, really are that–just mounds of flesh a lover may caress that otherwise get stuffed into a sports bra. I am completely oblivious to the life force transmission function that they will never likely awaken to.

My shrink once noted the issue of kids, have or have not, followed you all your life. If you got past the age of child-rearing and thought you could socialize again with those who chose a different path, think again, there was now the issue of have-and-have-not-grandkids to contend with. Separately, she mentioned women had to deal with politics of hair all her life (cut, grown, straighten, natural, dye, etc).

Boobies are on my mind because mammogram guidance age is creeping up. My mother scared me shitless of getting one after she recounted her experience when I was ten or so. Come to think of it, my niece is that age now–just the other day she demanded her mother buy her a bra for her mosquito bites because she was the only girl in her class not wearing one. Mammogram–am I really at risk if, you know, they’ve never metamorphosed? They never fulfilled their destiny, you know?

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Shh, do you hear what I hear?

Long, long time ago…wow, a full Chinese zodiac rotation ago (12 years), there was a thing called Team Angie vs Team Jennifer, namely, nosy third parties who took a position on the love triangle of  Mr. & Mrs. Smith and Rachel Green from Friends.

Me? Team Angie. I mean, why wouldn’t a man be drawn to a badass bitch who flew planes when your wife complained 24/7 about being type-cast? Though completely neutral on her acting skills (honestly can’t tell if she has them or doesn’t,) I was turned off after reading any interview because it was one whiney rant. If I want that, look no further than this blog, or open an email from my reliably pessimistic older sister–I don’t pay for Vanity Fair to hear the rich and famous puff and pout about how life is so unfair.

Oh but Jennifer, that was over a decade ago. How times have changed. Girl, you and I have more in common than I would have ever imagined. Remember the days when you were on a tabloid every week for having a bloated belly at the beach or some invented source talking about how you were getting fertility treatments? It was rather relentless and brutal. Simply put, it was bullying and I’m sure there’s some pop psychology class at some hip college that is dissecting it now (not that these college kids know who Jennifer Aniston is, oh but their professor does…oops, I digress.) Oh yes, our parallel developments.

Shhh, listen. Do you hear what I hear?

Nothing. Yup, no one is talking about how you’re trying for a baby any more. Me, neither, about a year ago, people stopped bothering with social perfunctoriness like “Oh you never know.”

The air is thick and heavy with the unmentionable.

Pregdar

“What are you doing here?!”

Super excited about the coincidence of running into each other, we chatted up a storm to condense our respective seven years into 90 second spiels, then switched to near future plans.

“Well, I hadn’t planned any of it,” she said of her decision to move, “but when I got pregnant, things changed.”

And that was the first time during our four minute encounter my eyes drifted below her face.

“Oh my god! You’re pregnant!!! Congratulations!!!!”

She laughed so hard. She assumed her six-month bump would be the first thing anyone would notice.

That would be anyone, but me.

When I was younger the wedding-band-scan was like an involuntary muscle. A while ago I stopped caring what people’s marital statuses were. Turns out I never even went through a phase of worrying about the Joneses in the pregnancy department, and I doubt I’ll start to care now.

Bah Humbug Mother’s Day

Yup, that time of the year to avoid social media, retail, and brunch hotspots. Sticking to my version of GTL–yoga, groceries and laundry.

Yoga was a room full of the usual suspects, single folks.

Supermarket was luxuriously empty. The cash registrar rang me up.

“Do you want the receipt?”

“Yes, in the bag, please.”

“Here you go. Happy Mother’s Day, to you and yours.”

Sigh!

Then that happened

I have little patience for those who preach that traveling helps discover who they are–those people just need to swap their airline ticket with a check for a shrink and figure out what they’re running away from. Travel is travel, exciting, challenging, eye opening, but not that profound.

Or so I thought. I was in East Asia. School was out and families were out in droves.  Kids awkwardly pedaled their bikes ahead of their moms walking with a swaddled sibling.  I was struck by how genuinely child-like the kids were, embodying curiosity and innocence. And the moms–they were relaxed and in tune with the children. They radiated kindness and warmth, and I had a thought–I could raise a child here.

It stirred. My long lost uterus, devoid of any pulse, let out a silent squeak, “I want a child.” I couldn’t believe it. Sentiments I thought I’d never have, making an appeal for the first time ever. Is this truly happening?! Inside my body?! MY uterus is stirring?!

It was faint, but it was a definite signal. Then it sank in. So all this time, all these years of struggling with why, the answer had been goddamn New York City– I had flashes of the expressions of the helicoptered kids, their expensive clothes and regimented schedules, the vapid eyes of the ones spilling out of their strollers with one hand in a ziploc bag full of Goldfish®. My body had taken all this in and shut down, deciding the rat race was no place for kids. The fucking Big Apple.

I was wide awake for the twelve hour flight home.

Stella Art Thou–Winterstorm

Stella, a blitzkrieg of a snowstorm and winter’s swan song. A state of emergency declared in New York City with most above-ground transportation suspended, schools shut down and businesses encouraged to close save essential staff.

In the case of my workplace, the essential staff was the bachelor and me. Following  HR’s “work from home as necessary” guideline, neither of us could validate the necessity of staying home, us single Manhattanites with no kids.

I was productive on a quiet day. Three incoming calls total. Even had the chance to read some trend and research reports.

Around 5PM I figured I’d get home before it got dark.

“See you tomorrow,” I told my trench mate. He was watching ESPN on his computer.

“Yup! Get home safe.”

We had held down the fort of single people, a space free of pancakes, hot chocolate, snowball fights and puzzles. We stayed warm under the glint of fluorescent lights and stared out of aluminum framed office windows waiting for the storm to abate–so that we could scurry home to frozen dinners and chilled beer.