Men of the world, rest easy. I have put myself back on the contraceptive pill. Phew!
I secretly took myself off-pill some nine months ago (ironically) in hopes of adding a certain sense of possibility and risk to my otherwise rather dull existence. Shake things up a bit with that ‘what if?’ vibe. And to lose weight, of course. But, guess what? No baby. Unless I’m gestating an elephant, which would explain a lot. Particularly the weight gain as opposed to the weight loss... But given I haven’t had sex with man or beast within the conventional timeframe for bringing an infant of almost any species into this world, this is hardly surprising news.
Unless this is the Second Coming – assuming God is giving time off for good behaviour these days.
But clearly playing Russian roulette with your fertility and future isn’t big and it isn’t clever. And if (if only!) there was a loaded gun around I’d have certainly downed weapons and declared a cease fire – I have no desire to trick someone into getting me up the duff. Scout’s honour, and all that stuff. No, a ‘happy accident’ with a condom was the theory... Because sometimes I think that’s the best I can hope for. I seriously can’t picture meeting, marrying, mortgaging and procreating with a man in the conventional sense. Coz in practice... Hell, I can’t even be trusted to remove my eye makeup at the end of the average evening out, so how can I hope to find a suitable mate in that state?!
But then there’s this fantasy of my future self... With the hubby, the 2.4 children and our pet Labrador. The house in the country with the heffing great farmhouse kitchen. Me, getting the Sunday lunch on. Knocking up a batch of gingerbread men for the village fete. In the Aga. Basically, I’m Kirstie Allsopp. But then you hit 30* and that just hasn’t happened. And you hear your mother say, “When I was your age I was married with two kids” for the zillionth time, and you wonder – is this ever going to happen? Like, ever?!
When you even struggle to get to the bit where there’s talk of taking a mini-break and maybe moving in. When you rule out perfectly acceptable chaps from the get-go because you prefer brown eyes to blue and simply cannot tolerate someone who thinks apostrophes are optional or puts Ketchup on their roast dinner. When you shudder at the thought of spending a further five minutes with some of the halfwits you happened to have shagged, let alone the next 18 years. When you looked at baby photos of the last man you were supposedly in love with and deemed his head funny-shaped, and hence him unsuitable breeding fodder – seriously, what hope is there?!
(To my future blue-eyed, Frankenstein-headed offspring, if you’re reading this – there was a fuck-up at the sperm bank, for which that doctor paid dearly. Mummy loves you really. Provided she doesn’t look you directly in the face.)
So, after a lot of soul-searching, I’m back on the pill. Because I’ll be damned if I’m spending my 30s spotty. Honestly – my skin is an outrage! Zits everywhere! Plus my boobs have shrunk too, which just takes the biscuit. But rather than spend my Sunday afternoon obsessing over how my teenage skin contrasts with my National Geographic breasts (which is what I have been doing), in white picket fence world I am preparing Sunday lunch for the family. So I thought I’d take this opportunity to share my favourite roast recipe with you...
*Crying in a New York City bar restroom, fyi, midnight UK time so therefore officially the 22nd June, but 7pm State-side the day before – but more on that in post nine as I have to write these in advance for Bex to do the pictures!
No comments:
Post a Comment