Infertility: When a roll in the hay becomes a hayride. I hope you’re not nearly as sick of my autumn analogies yet as I am. But I can’t seem to stop myself. I’ll admit I get carried away for some reason at this time of year. I get sucked into every delicious piece of snacky crap on the shelf just because it´s added “pumpkin spice” or “spooky” to its normal name. When most people are overcome by addiction, they see red. I see orange. I’m hoping I’ll be able to squelch my latest urge: To trick-or-treat this year dressed as Dorothy. Nobody wants to see a woman my age in gingham unless she’s swinging her partner round and round in a barn. Speaking of hay… and infertility…
You decide you want to have a baby. You figure it’s just going to take a few simple rolls in the hay and then you’ll get pregnant. After all, you’ve heard the song your whole life: “First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes you driving an embarrassingly sensible minivan.” So then week after week, month after month, you two roll in that hay and all you have to show for it is a lot of sweaty hay lodged in various parts of your person. So you get yourself up, dust yourself off… and climb aboard the infertility hayride.
“Move all the way to the front and scooch together.”
You guys aren’t alone anymore. The hayride is crowded. Dozens, hundreds, thousands are on the ride with you. Some wear scrubs or white lab coats – an odd fashion choice for a bumpy jaunt through the woods. But most look like they shopped where you did: At the overwhelmed and disheveled mess boutique at Neiman Marcus.
There will be no rolls in this hay. Oh no, we can’t have that. All of this hay is neatly packaged. The lab coats will tell you where to sit, when to sit– when to touch the hay– when not to touch the hay.
“And while you’re sitting there enjoying the ride, we’ll go into the hen house and collect some eggs and… no no, shoo rooster shoo… we’re not quite ready for you yet. Just hold your horses… and your plastic cup.”
The ride will go up hills, into ditches, scrape bottom on a rock or two, smell like manure, and pass your car that’s been patiently waiting for you in the parking lot, several times. You’ll get rocked from side to side, you’ll lean on each other so you don’t fall overboard backwards, then you´ll catch the woman next to you so she doesn’t fall overboard backwards … and all the while a bunch of the lab coats will be steady on their feet, calmly walking up and down the ride. Unlike the polite folks at the food court, they will be taking samples… from every naked female arm crease they can get their little latex hands on.
And most of all, they’ll try to keep you focused on the needles that go into your tummy and your tush so you’ll stop believing that you’re only hope is to get down on your hands and knees and find one in the haystack.
I’m exhausted. This is what happens when a city girl tries to speak “farm”… If you’d like more laughs at infertility’s expense (without a single fall reference), please sign on to my not-overly-frequent newsletter and check out my eBook which will also be available in paperback this month– On all Amazons, Nook, & Kobo. (En Español: La Risa ES Concebible) https://www.amazon.com//dp/B007G9X19A/
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