So, last night I finally gave the girls in my Bible study the blog address, which means admitting in public that I am known as Big Mama on the world wide web of internet. I had mentioned that I had a blog last week, but then I started to sweat profusely and couldn’t really get the words out, so I left feeling like I had just told a group of people that I write things on the internet in what may, or may not be, just a Word document. I don’t know why I am okay with people I’ve never met reading all my ramblings, but start to twitch when I realize people who know me in real life are reading. It’s like I’m afraid of the rejection, like someone may say, “Boy, that whole Big Mama thing? Really bad.”
Anyway, here’s how I’ve spent the last two days. On Monday, I had my annual exam with my ob/gyn and asked him at what age do I become too high maintenance to try to have another baby. He grinned and said that although he doesn’t live with me, he feels fairly certain that I already am high maintenance. Oh touche’ baby doctor. Touche’.
But seriously, in a world filled with Hollywood actresses having babies at age 52, what does he consider to be too late or in the risk zone? He basically told me that I should have gotten pregnant yesterday. He also gave me this long lecture on how once a woman reaches age 25, her eggs begin to gradually taper off year after year. And as I sat there with my feet in the stirrups, all I could think about was that I can’t believe I’ve been going downhill for the last 10 years and no one told me. I was all prepared to start going downhill in 3 weeks after I turn 36 and now, I’ve found out that I’ve been headed down the hill for a long time and am quickly gaining momentum.
If I was a snowball, I’d be large enough to kill someone by now.
So, he told me that I better make a decision pretty quick because time? She is a-wastin’. And the pressure that put on my ovaries, combined with an already raging case of PMS, just did wonders for my emotional state. As I drove home from his office I felt like there were flashing neon signs that screamed, IT’S NOW OR NEVER and honestly, I’m not ready for it to be now, so maybe it will be never. But like Scarlett O’Hara says, “I’ll think about that tomorrow”.
Then, yesterday morning, I had an appointment with my orthodontist. On my last visit, two weeks ago, he had done the molds for my permanent retainers and when I booked my follow up appointment with his receptionist, she mentioned that it looked like I might be getting my braces off on my next visit. So, I have been walking around for the last two weeks like a kid in December, all hyped up on candy canes and Santa, just dreaming of how glorious it will be to live a life that doesn’t require me to figure out a subtle way to take out my rubberbands when dining at a nice restaurant such as Chik-fil-A. In fact, I almost bought a pound of salt water taffy at the store on Monday so that I could celebrate by eating all of it on Tuesday once my braces were off. And here’s the thing, I don’t really even like salt water taffy, but I was going to eat it purely because I haven’t been able to in almost 2 years.
I was going to eat nothing but corn on the cob and taffy for weeks. And then, go to the doctor to see about clearing up my scurvy.
I hadn’t mentioned that I was going to get my braces off because first of all, I didn’t want to jinx it (and yes, I just said jinx it because I have braces which sometimes cause me to channel the lingo of an 11 year old) and also, I was going to do this great before and after thing with braces and no braces. It was going to be oh so witty and clever, and much better than this post of disillusionment, disappointment, and crushed orthodontia hopes that y’all are now stuck reading.
Anyway, my appointment was at 8:30 Tuesday morning. I brushed my teeth while looking in the mirror and having visions of pearly, white teeth dancing in my head. I actually put on makeup and cute jeans with my favorite black top AND my wedge heel sandals. I figured if I was going to get my “after” pictures taken, I better look good. Plus, I was going to spend the rest of the day setting the world on fire with my dazzling white, straight smile.
Little did I know, I was mascara-ing in vain.
Dr. Kevorkian came in, looked at my teeth and said, “Well, Sport, I see a few more things I’d like to tweak.” And with that, I knew the braces weren’t coming off, and I am embarrassed to say that I truly almost started to cry. I know the PMS was making me a little more emotional than usual, but I sat in that chair as he twisted some more wires in my mouth and had to think about things like Victoria Beckham posing for her drivers’ license photo to help me fight back the tears. Part of me wanted to give in to the self pity of being a woman of advanced maternal age, on a rapid downward spiral with questionable eggs, and braces on my teeth, but I couldn’t let those 12 year olds sitting next to me see me cry. Mainly because I was afraid I’d overhear them telling their mamas, “Yeah, there was some weird lady in there, who was, like, YOUR AGE, and she had braces and she was crying like a little girl”.
So, I focused on lovely thoughts of Posh Spice and her reference to Lionel Richie dancing on the ceiling while laying wood floors, and it got me through. And as soon as I got out of the office, I headed to Nordstroms to indulge in a little brand new jeans therapy. I bought a pair called “The Rocker” because they sounded edgy and trendy, although now I’m wondering if they’re actually made for elderly women and “the rocker” is actually referring to a chair, not a state of mind.
Something to ponder.
Later, I went to the grocery store to pick up a few things and saw Katie Holmes on the cover of People. The headline screamed, “Why Katie Holmes is Happier than Ever!!!!” I didn’t need to buy the magazine, because I know the answer.
Katie Holmes is happy because she doesn’t have braces on her teeth. I bet she eats corn on the cob and saltwater taffy whenever she wants.
If that’s not having it all, then I don’t know what is.