Driving Miss Poppy
Gee whizz! How long has it been since I last posted?? I would apologise but what the heck. Life is busy here so suck it up hahaha.
I have a confession.
At the grand old age of 42, I am finally learning to drive. With gears and everything. I know, how lame. I know most of you Americans come out of the womb with the steering wheel clenched between your teeth but I never really wanted to do it.
Mr P learnt about 10 years ago and has been dropping giant hints ever since. I was too busy spending money on ART and trips to South Africa. Now I have decided that it is time to actually accomplish something, anything, rather than pour money into my defective body.
Lots of peeps have asked how I am doing and I can say truthfully...Good. I am on my little pillow of Prozac still and I float along, getting on with my life. Occasionally I think about cycling again and then I think "Nah".
The blogging thing (or lack of it) is weird. I no longer feel the need to howl into the ether or hear an answering distant howl back. I am resigned to being childless and every day I confirm that to myself. I am happier not cycling ever again than facing the endless cycles of depression and self-hate and self-pity that would be my companions.
I get it now. My body just does not want to do it, not with my eggs nor anybody else's. And I can accept that. It took a long time but I am definitely getting there.
Some days and weeks are easier than others but it will pass. When my father died, I thought I would never get over it and the pain would never ease or the crying stop. But it does. To me, this feels the same way.
So the driving thing? Taking back some control that is not governed by hormones feels fabulous. I do it at work all the time but this is new. I normally joke that I am totally unco-ordinated and for a long time, I thought I would just not be capable to drive or would hate it. Funnily enough, I love it, gears and all.
I always said that I would have a kid or a dog. I have the dog now and it is enough.
So if you are here for the group-induced self-pity or the ART angst, move on. They don't live here anymore.