You are Old, Father William...and So's That Old Broad

"You are old, Father William," the young man said, "And your hair has become very white; And yet you incessantly stand on your head-- Do you think, at your age, it is right?" "In my youth," Father William replied to his son, "I feared it might injure the brain; But now that I'm perfectly sure I have none, Why, I do it again and again." "You are old," said the youth, "As I mentioned before, And have grown most uncommonly fat; Yet you turned a back-somersault in at the door— Pray, what is the reason of that?" "In my youth," said the sage, as he shook his grey locks, "I kept all my limbs very supple By the use of this ointment—one shilling the box— Allow me to sell you a couple?" "You are old," said the youth, "And your jaws are too weak For anything tougher than suet; Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the beak— Pray, how did you manage to do it?" "In my youth," said his father, "I took to the law, And argued each case with my wife; And the muscular strength which it gave to my jaw, Has lasted the rest of my life." "You are old," said the youth, "one would hardly suppose That your eye was as steady as ever; Yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose— What made you so awfully clever?" "I have answered three questions, and that is enough," Said his father; "don't give yourself airs! Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff? Be off, or I'll kick you down stairs!"

-Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland

My thanks, once again, Mr. Carroll. I just gave a copy of your wonderful book to my Ma, who at 65 years old has yet to read you.

I had a week not too long ago where I too, like the delightful and ornery Father William, was tempted to kick something or somebody down the stairs for persistently pointing out "But you're so old!"

Exhibit A: Fertility and Age

After a tardy period and two "I'm-not-nervous-I'm-just-wondering" home pregnancy tests followed by the usual bloody onslaught, I decided to go see my doc to discuss my (limited) birth control options beyond condoms, withdrawal, and blind faith.

I suppose I was hoping she'd have some magic potion that had escaped the notice of Google. No. Birth control has not really progressed much in the last 30 years, it seems. The fact that some women still use diaphragms amazes me. After my last ill-fated attempt to insert an Instead menstrual cup, I do not think this is the option for anyone with feisty kegels.

Hormonal birth control plays havoc with my skin, causing the appearance of a brownish pigment on my forehead. This is sometimes called pregnancy mask. The irony of pregancy mask being caused by birth control pills does not go unappreciated by me, but the fact that it never goes away even when I stop the pills, and am forever banished from exposing my face to the sun is not appreciated.

Then there's the IUD. Copper is not recommended for heavy bleeders. Golly, okay! Then there's the Mirena, which is plastic and releases a small amount of progesterone in addition to physically blocking any squigglers. It sounds like my surest bet, even though it costs several hundred dollars, requires dilation to insert, and there's a tiny chance my uterus could get punctured during insertion/it may result in ectopic preganancy. Pshaw.

My main objections to it are a) having something inserted and then left behind for 2-5 years seems more like a surgical mistake than an intentional procedure and b) there's some awful practical talk of the strings which hang down into the vagina, and that need to be trimmed to the right length, and that need to be checked each month to make sure they are still in place. Etc. Having two strands of synthetic linguine hanging in my pleasuredome puts me off.

Anyway, inevitably the discussion re: birth control leads to well, what are your plans for children, to which I mumble that I don't know, didn't think it was in my cards, but I still hadn't ruled it out...here my doc glances down at my chart, her eyebrows raised.

"Well, you are, what, 37?" she says. "Even, um, younger women take a year on average to conceive. And your chances after 35 of the occurrence of Down's Syndrome goes up like this..." --here she draws a steep arc upwards to show me how precipitous my odds are becoming with each passing year.

Basically, the message transmitted was I understand you don't want to become pregant today, but if there's any desire to become pregant at any point in the future with a healthy child you'd better start thinking about tomorrow. Fair 'nuff. I've always felt so young and vigorous, I'd taken it for granted my eggs were hatchable. That said, one cannot deny 37 clicking over to 38 in a few months has a ring of near-finality to it.

This relates nicely to:

Exhibit B: Coupling Up and Age

I am seeing someone a few years younger than me. What's three years, right? Well, a lot if fertility as a positive is introduced into the mix. A day or two after the raised eyebrows of the doctor, I listened to a CBC Radio program about manchilds, and delayed adolescence in adult males in their 20s and 30s, and how these men tend to prefer younger women so they could have children when they were ready, i.e. when he's 40 and she's 34, for example. This gave me pause for thought. Hmm. Gosh, I think I'm a manchild! This thrill of recognition is followed by a thread of anxiety. Jeepers, my guy should be dating some cute little eggy late-20's babe! At this point, I was bloated, anxious, and about as close to bleaty as someone as stoic as me ever gets. W.T.F? All right, Exhibits. Here's what I offer in rebuttal: Rebuttal I. Science! According to stalwart penpal and Once Upon Good Time Guyfriend, the moon is closer to earth than it has been in 300,000. Ok, literal lunacy ensued, by way of partial explanation. According to my mum, who saw Jennifer "Flashdance" Beals on a talk-show the other night talking about giving birth to a healthy child at 42, I am just like her. Ok, optimism. (My mum thinks I'm an undiscovered celebrity, and we all know celebrities can have babies any time they want.) However, science is on my side. If some 64-year old Sicilian broad can give birth to twins through artificial insemination, then surely I have a couple-three years left in me. Rebuttal II. Indifference!! Now that my odd anxious spell has passed, I've come back to the position I've maintained for years: I don't want children (still). I realised this when I politely asked my 32-year old friend Sinead to explain what wanting a child felt like. She explained with enthusiasm, once she realised I was sincere the question. I heard "little" and "cute" and "fun" and "love". (Nothing new in the mix to entice me there. I saw a bulldog puppy the other day that was so cute I almost wet my pants, but have never had this reaction to a kid yet.) Rebuttal III. Confidence!!! I suspect this uncharacteristic doubt was due in part to the moon and the radio show and blaghblaghblagh (that's the Irish "blahblahblah", in honour of St. Patrick's month). It was also due in part to discovering several mortifying long, fine stray hairs growing along my left jawline. Jesus. I'm turning into Wolverine. Luckily on one side only. Oh goody. I have vague notions that it may be increased testosterone due to working out so much, not some pre-menopausal hormonal seismic shudderings. Of course, I've had some pesky colds too, so am not feeling tip-top physically. Additionally, I've been feeling a little off-centre in my accidental relationship, and wondering if there is something else I should be doing or feeling instead of just humping along and having nice dinners and generally fun times. And in the general wondering it occurred to me that maybe there's something about me that men really like, but just can't love. It sounds dense and insecure of me, but I suspect everyone's thought along these lines. While I wasn't looking for a pep-talk, I must have been emitting some kind of woebegone signal as I had a couple of pals tell me offhand that I'm a Catch. Oh. Yeah! Duh. Lucky for me, I have a resilient (monstrous) ego, that can make a meal out of a few table scraps, so I reckon I'm good for a while now. I also have to remind myself that this man is not a man-child, and is with me because he likes me. He doesn't want some eggy broad ten years my junior, with no fixed opinions on deodorant use or pubic waxing, no dough, and no plans beyond vague notions of being a doolah. Or an art therapist. (And he certainly doesn't want any more children in the near future, so it's off soon to the local hot ob-gyny with my Safeway Pharmacy-purchased Mirena for insertion.) He can also do the math, and so far my 33 months plus on him has not been mentioned as a negative. Now, glancing over, I see that this very grown-up man is almost done his chemistry homework and tea biscuits, so we must be getting close to bed. Signing off, a Hot Old Broad