Social Minefield

14 Jul

After your sex life, your social life is usually the next infertility casualty.  I started to become socially inept and fearful around Month 8 or 9.

You develop an impressive radar for women with belly bumps. You’ll walk into a party, survey the scene, spot a bump and your lip hits the floor. When you pick it up, you’ll see that the bump is quite small. Oh! Maybe just too many sandwiches? But deep down you know. There’s that glow, the one that rarely accompanies bloating.

Soon it feels as if everybody in your circle (and their cousins, sisters and friends) has a baby, or one on the way. You hate pregnant women you don’t even know. You hate people with 3, 4 or 5 children even more. You notice with alarm any sudden spells of sobriety among your favorite lushes. You have a pat excuse for avoiding people. “We got invited to a party? I don’t want to go. I might see pregnant people. I don’t care if it’s catered, or if the Kogi truck will be there.” You have a leaded dread of the holidays and the cheery photographic reminders of others’ conception successes that involved nothing more than the spreading of legs. You want to spend all your time with your gay friends. You actively imagine your future as an old lady who hopes that someone visits her at the nursing home, and brings her cake. Preferably Red Velvet. From Auntie Em’s Kitchen.

Did somebody say cake? Luckily I am easily distracted from the dark side of infertility. Until next time!

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