No More Fooling Around

Okay, imaginary baby. I've had enough. Enough, I say.

First off, my disappointment at last month's non-event, coupled with the fact that I am actually turning forty in two months, has given me new resolve.

I've done all the research. I've poked around. I've talked to insurance companies. And I've made an appointment, in one month's time, with a doctor who I am going to refer to from her on out as the Big Guns.

I'm getting medieval on your ass, imaginary baby. And by medieval, I mean twenty-first century, because this is going to be some seriously sci fi shit, right here. There's going to be shots and medications and more transvaginal ultra sounds than a Republican can shake a stick at. Total strangers are going to take very close looks at my most secret depths. There will be imaging. There will be so many blood tests I might wind up with track marks. All for you, my little imaginary friend, all for you.

Or if nothing else, all for my own peace of mind around your nonexistence. Because there's a good chance that none of this science fiction magic will work. That I will undergo it all, and I will hit my insurance coverage limit before anything works. Or that I will undergo it all, and they'll say, oh well, your eggs are terrible, want to use a donor? And I will say no.

Because if I'm going to have a baby who isn't mine, I feel like it would be better - morally, mentally, physically - to find one of the zillions of already extant young people who are not related to me, and who are living in less than ideal conditions, and in need of a home with mentally stable and financially solvent people. Also, being pregnant is horrifying.

Sorry, imaginary baby, but it totally is, Should you ever actually exist, I already dread the day of having to explain to you how all this stuff works, because the first thing to know is, it's disgusting and disturbing.

So. You just sit tight, right now. I mean, if you want to beat me to the punch and start appearing in time for me to cancel the appointment with Big Guns, by all means, be my guest. But I'm guessing you're not going to do that. And that's okay.

What we're after, in this new phase, is certainty. I need it, I've decided. I need either a certain yes - panic! we can't afford it! the new apartment is too small! - or a certain no. With a certain no, I can stop thinking about it. I can stop worrying about it.

I can stop updating this unread blog.