It’s beginning again. Another one. This must be roughly the 324th since the process started when I was twelve. Month after month after month and never for any good reason. The lining becomes plush and thick, “ready to receive an egg,” it said in the Modess pamphlet I got in the sixth grade. And then it all just sloughs off. Slough, slough, slough.
What do a nun and 7Up have in common? Never had it, never will. For me, it’s just been so long, I can’t remember much. Is there supposed to be a guy there? At this point I feel like I know as much about clasping and sweating as I do about children or marriage.
My uterus. As useful as a kamikazee fighter after Japan surrendered. Useful like the extra button on the inside of the sweater. Like the rest of the banana. It’s the kid forever standing in right field with the brand new catcher’s mitt. Ready to receive an egg.
The monthly drip is a drag, a leak that hasn’t been plugged in 27 years. I wish I could just shut it off. Twenty-seven years of being ready to receive an egg. Put away the mitt already! I never even wanted to play.