Today starts Blogging A to Z April Challenge. I'll pause briefly in my post to invite you all to visit The Hubs new blog, What's The Matter? With Mojo. This is his first blog, so head over and welcome him to blogging, please! He will not be blogging about IF, but he has a very interesting mind, so you may find his stuff interesting.
I thought I'd use this time to partially work out some of the squirminess of my brain lately, if you don't mind, so some of these posts may be very reflective and, even a bit vague or opaque due to the nature of what I'm talking about.
In that vein, I'd like to use this post to discuss ageing and why I hate it so much. I have a very love/hate relationship with my birthday, as I'm sure others of you do. I do love the attention I get on my birthday (I'm not too proud to admit I like attention!), but turning older - ageing - scares me.
It hasn't always been this way. Right up until the day I turned 26, I always thought I'd be one of those women who wouldn't worry about getting older. I mean, that's what we're supposed to do, right? We get older, we have families, we grow mature, we have homes and we move gracefully into octogenarianism.
Only, on my 26th birthday when my co-worker David said "Awesome! You're now more than a quarter of a century old!", I felt like I had been slammed in the chest with a concrete block. That phrase had had the power to shift my whole world view. I was no longer young - I had moved into a space where I would never again be accurately described as a young adult. And, in the place where I was life-wise at the time - in a different country, desperately missing home, in an environment where half the people thought I was an exotic creature because I was from another country and the other half thought I was a despicable creature worthy of nothing more than their utter contempt - this was more than my adled mind could take.
We're now seven years on from that time and I have come to something akin to terms with my inevitable ageing. However, when you add in my battle with infertility, the ageing process takes on a whole new sinister meaning. With every day that passes with nothing happening in our fight to become a family, I am that much more aware of getting older. And I'm aware that I feel much older than I actually am.
Recently, this feeling has started getting to me. The Hubs and I go out most weekends, but we've become very predictable. Our usual night out consists of dinner out and a movie. Now, I know there are those of you who are saying to yourselves "Oh, poor Lynn. She thinks she has it so bad, but I'd kill to get a night out with my hubby every week! If we had that luxury, I'd think we'd won the life lottery!". I understand how good I have it, believe me, but this is not who I was. In my late teens and early 20's, I was the wild child! I was the girl who was out at a bar every night! I had friends! I loved to dance and sing and just be silly! I was a social butterfly!
That's something I haven't done in years and, honestly, I miss it. In the last couple of weeks, The Hubs and I have started to hang out a bit with a friend of mine from work - possibly my first "outside of work" friend I see regularly in years. While so far our hang-outs have been at her house playing cards, we are planning to go out tomorrow night for a night on River Street in Savannah. I have to say I'm looking very forward to it! We were supposed to be joined by another friend, but he backed out. I was inexplicably upset by this because it felt like rejection. I hate rejection.
Times were so much less complicated when I was younger, even though I didn't see it that way then and, years from now, I'll probably see this as an uncomplicated time as well.
So there you go. My first post for the A to Z Blogging Challenge. In all my usual whiny, feeling-sorry-for-myself glory! I will have to try to post more positively soon, but thanks for sticking with me through this.