Redundant Ovaries

I have ‘redundant ovaries’.

I’m sure they’re very jolly, friendly ovaries but they’re now totally and utterly useless. Healthy but, well, gainfully unemployed.

Why was I even thinking about my ovaries? Well, pull up a chair and I’ll tell ya…

I was at home yesterday watching No Reservations (not the brills Anthony Bourdain cookery/travel programme) but the meh Catherine Zeta-Jones/Aaron Eckhart movie, thinking about how much fun I’d had with my friends and her kids last weekend.

A group of us lounged around the pool at her apartment complex, drank secret beer, chatted like grown-ups do in polite company, and tried to hide our fat bits with colourful kaftans.

That was the women. The men did the beer thing and chatted but they also made regular furtive glances over at the three babes in bikinis doing that generic Olivia Wilde magazine pose. You know, the one where they pout, stick their arses in the air and arch their backs. In public. Nice. *shivers*

Anyhoo, in between keeping an eye on how many times they kept checking in with the aforementioned internet-addled jailbait (about every 10-15 seconds), I became transfixed with the children playing in the pool.

My friend has two boys and they were creating some kind of amazingly complicated water fight game with another girl, who seemed baffled by the levels this game had taken on. It looked like exhilarating, unintelligible, senseless fun and the kid in me wanted desperately to stop having a conversation about the crap economy and water bomb my way into the middle of it. But I didn’t.

Instead, I chipped away at the conversation with phrases such as ‘Slow recovery’, and ‘What about the price of gas then?’ but all the while, I continued to watch the children playing.

I wasn’t being weird, I was just looking at them thinking, ‘I will never have children of my own, and that’s really sad.’

I had to stop my sad thoughts becoming my sad face because I didn’t want anyone to ask me what was wrong. I knew if I ‘went there’ I would tear up, and one should never tear up poolside in the middle of a sunny afternoon. That’s just rude.

But the fact remains that this is a wrong that will never be put right.

And it IS really sad. And it’s a huge regret that I will live with forever. This is how it happened: I didn’t meet the guy, and I didn’t have the kids.

People say to me all the time now, ‘But you can still go it alone’, like being a single mum is the answer.

Well, it may sate MY desire, but what about theirs?

That would be incredibly selfish and what good would that do them? In a perfect world (ha!), I believe that kids need two parents. Bringing them up is hard work, and I wouldn’t want to do it by myself. Many woman do and although they always tell me that they wouldn’t have it any other way, I’ve seen how they struggle. Sometimes the kids are ok, sometimes they are not.

So my extra bits sit inside me twiddling their thumbs. A constant reminder that I failed to procreate. And because of that, I’m pretty sure my body is going through its own ‘Great Depression’.

I can only hope that one day my ovaries will come into their own.

Maybe they’ll stop a bullet from killing me? Or I’ll have the opportunity to hand them over to last woman on earth so that she can have kids and the human race will be saved. Hurrah!

Or maybe I’ll just continue to picture them in my head, like two laconic Sun Maid raisins, sitting on a bench wearing trench-coats, complaining about the job market, and wondering how they’re going to get to the end of the month with no work.

Them and the rest of the world, eh?

Sidenote: I thought the phrase ‘redundant ovaries’ was a Googlewhack. But it turns out that a Googlewhack is a search term that returns just one hit. This didn’t return any results until today, so erm, I have actually created my first Googlewhack. Yay. (I think?).


2 Comments on “Redundant Ovaries”

  1. Rouge Vino says:

    I do know a lady who had a kid at 48 – don’t give up hope just yet and please dive bomb next time – the kids had a better idea than the adults!

  2. How wonderful for your friend but I read that and thought, ‘Bloody hell, I’d be 64 when they turned 18!’

    And yes to the dive bomb. I should have done it fully clothed. Kaftan akimbo!

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