Reproduction really bums me out. This ageing thing just gets worse and worse; honestly. It's like a cruel crossover; you have your youth, when your body is strong but your mind is a bit iffy, and then ten glorious minutes when they're both functioning excellently... and then your body begins its descent, and your mind does its best, in spite of the lack of cooperation from everything else. I feel as if I squandered my fertile years, even I wasn't ready in any -ally way, except physically (and even then, my fitness was still so bad that walking around with a bag of potatoes attached to my front wouldn't have been any picnic; maybe a picnic up Everest). I didn't find Vincent until I was almost twenty-seven! And for the first few years there was no time for a baby; there was barely time for the people we love already in existence! And now I'm walking up 30's path, getting ready to knock at the door, and wondering if those are cobweb patterns in my periods.
Is it when you turn thirty or forty that the risk of birth defects increases? That used to sound so far away. I remember asserting, at sixteen, that I wouldn't have kids until I was forty. And I meant it! How did I know that I would meet someone who would make me acutely aware of mortality, and wish to make many reproductions of him, while I could? (Also that I wasn't going to be whatever kind of career-driven person my sixteen-year-old self was expecting.) Why haven't the people doing all of the impressive science stuff figured out a way to reconcile our life expectancies with our baby windows? The baby I might have had as an eighteen-year-old might have had technically good parts, but the damage inflicted on it by having a moron for a mother must mostly cancel out the good of those parts.
I know I'm rambling. This happens to the elderly. I know I'm obsessing over this ageing thing too. That also happens to the elderly.
It's just that this aware, examined life goes so fast. It seems that the minute you become an adult, you realise you're running out of time; delusions of immortality are the privilege of the young. I only woke up from that coma a few years ago, and now I look at my parents and freak out that they're going to die. I look at Vincent, and worry that every year together is going to pass as fast as the last one did. I look in the mirror, and hope beyond hell that I'm not one of those faces that peaks at twenty-five. I look at the world, and kick myself for not having done more. And I look at my stomach, and berate it for being empty.
And yet I kind of want it to be empty, too. Because not having something that we want, and that I'm sure we'll have, seems to stave off time, if only a little. I can pretend that we have time, because something that should be ours isn't ours yet. I know that life doesn't work that way, but I can pretend. And try to be happy that I grew up, literally and otherwise, and haven't run out of time yet.