Well meaning friends and family members have gently urged me not to focus so much on the whole infertility thing. Believe me, I’ve tried. I’ve thrown myself into work projects, changed my reading list to historical fiction and autobiographies and made gardening and outdoor activities a staple in my routine. Everything seems fine until…
I went to the hardware store the other day to get some new gardening tools. At the check-out an affable woman who would have been at the senior center if not working the cash register, asked to see my driver’s license. I’m now a brunette though the six-year-old picture on my license shows me as a blond. I jokingly assured her that it really was me in the photo despite my penchant for changing hair styles and color.
My chatty cashier then launched into a monologue that began with, “Just wait until the day comes when you have grandchildren and they refuse to believe, despite evidence, you were ever young once…”
I didn’t hear much of what followed next in her story. I was too busy debating whether I should let her continue to ramble or school her in the fact that not every woman is biologically equipped to become a grandmother. The kinder voice in my head won out. She didn’t intend to get a lesson in endocrinology. The angry voice told me that I was wounded by her careless assumption that I had kids who would one day have kids and shouldn’t let her off the hook so easily.
I gathered up my purchases and left the stores. The rest of the day the debate continued to rage inside my head. And boy did I come up with some zingers that I wish I had used. It was small consolation.