Bio-Slut Confesses: Ovaries Outmatch Wits

Let's analyze the situation, shall we? Forty-ish woman, who had the wisdom to demand that her partner be spayed after birth of second child, fears she is pregnant. The vasectomy is years old. The Woman has experienced peri-menopausal symptoms for a year or two. The very same woman had a menstrual period not too long before the pregnancy worry began. We shall call her Bio-Slut.

During the workday, Bio-Slut forgets about the concern, apart from an occasional notice of the slight belly protrusion. She eats like an absolute swine - no, a swine with parasites - and has done so for over a year. She remembers that she used to be quite thin. Of late she is more in the normal range. Bio-Slut forgets that she has gained the wight gradually, and decides it must all be from the past few weeks. She frets on the phone to her sister, who keeps wondering why she doesn't pop over to the pharmacy for a home test?

At home, the breasts are sore, as they have been every month for about thirty years. Bio-Slut thinks they look veinier than usual (not vain, although they are quite nice, but veiny - those long blue things). She examines her breasts closely, and she remembers the same pale appearance from pregnancy. She is pretending to be in an earlier chapter of her life, but she is unaware of the dimming of her wits. Bio-Slut detects a slight enlargement of the areola, and even notices some milkish under-the-skin orbs on her nipples. Or she thinks she does. Maybe there's a little pressure somewhere, a bit of nausea.

You know how the story ends. And it's not with a splash of blood - how tacky. Obviously! I, Bio-Slut, Discharge Dork, Sterilization Sap, am a victim of my own pathetically strong biological urge to be pregnant. And I arrived at this epiphany - of biology overcoming intellect - despite the fact that I don't wanna baby, I don't wannanother kid, and I certainly don't want anything pushing on my bladder for 9 months and completely ruining any chance I might have for a not-chaotic life. Yet somehow, some part of me, and that part may very well be my uterus, seems to be thinking about pregnancy.

Why oh why would a woman of my maturity, my self-possession, be subtly wondering about pregnancy? Don't answer that - it was rhetorical. I am a victim of my own maternal instinct, hostage to my ovaries, and beholden to my vagina and all its accoutrements. Insanely devoted to my children. Always able to get up in the middle of the night, to think clearly in emergencies, and to put them first. How awful.

Not only that, but even my relationship with Ball & Chain is a matter of biology. As some close friends have heard me say, when I ovulate, even telephone poles start looking good. If a person tracked my sexual history, and graphed it, there would be a spike for every little ova that was preparing to come along, and a definite lull when fertilization was not a possibility.

Inevitably, Bio-Slut had to wake up. I began to remember a few essential facts. Each time I was pregnant, I knew it within days. It was either women's intuition, or extreme nausea. I recalled that almost all of the current "symptoms" come and go monthly; I imagined the absurdity of purchasing a pregnancy test. More to the point, I considered my now forty-ish body, post-ruptured disc, as well as pregnancy complications, bed rest, sore butt, and sores in my butt (hemorrhoids). I remembered how hopeful I felt when she was pregnant, and thus, I became one with My Inner Bio-Slut and actual reality.

It is appropriate for me to attempt the state of hoping, of optimism and looking forward to happy moments. However, one cannot replicate the feelings from old moments, and it's pretty foolish to try. I am too busy to ponder pregnancy, menopause, or even the first day of my last period. My true developmental phase requires a heart-felt yelp at the teenager, attendance at yoga class, and awareness of the pubescent girl as she experiences body hair, boobs, and bitchy outbursts. I am officially Not A Young Mother, and my Bio-Slut needs to go take a nap.