Last One Out Is A Rotten Egg

It’s official. I’m middle aged.

I’m certainly not a Chico wearing, color coordinated, grey haired, book club going member (though I do belong to a book club). But it’s really my steady decline into menopause that has got me feeling down. Or should I say, up, and down, and up and down, with a cry or two in between. How did this happen? Why does this happen? And more importantly, what exactly IS happening?

I consulted my worrier’s drug of choice, the internet, to try and find out. Apparently my eggs have run out, or gone bad, or gone bad and dribbled out. I’m not really sure, since even after hours of searching there’s no definitive answer!

The average woman has about 450 periods in her lifetime, and we apparently have a reserve of 1.5 million eggs?!?! So, what the hell happens to all the others? Do they just sit there fermenting like a fine wine, disappear like magic, or spill out in a torrent like the under-FSH stimulated punk ass bitches they are? Sometimes when I wake up in a cold sweat in the middle of the night (or hot sweat, really), I picture them, my pearly little soldiers, fading away into the dark recesses of my fallopian tubes, kicking themselves for all the things they thought they would have accomplished by 45. They were all going to be cute little babies, or tortuous periods, or artists, housewives, entrepreneurs, business women, entertainers… Wait, that’s me, I think, and I can still do all that!

There’s still time. My eggs may be gone, but I’m still here trying to inch my way through the dark tunnel and into the bright light of middle age. Not too bright, though, or my crows feet will show.

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