Hysteria

I've spent a lot of time over the last few days thinking about my uterus. Yes, if there are any boys out there, you can be excused now. Did you know that the word "hysteria" is derived from the Ancient Greek word for "uterus?" Both hyster- like hysterectomy and hest- like Hestia, goddess of the hearth. Wherein hearth also was a representation for a woman, which makes having a bun in your oven make a lot more sense.

Lots of my friends are involved with bun-making these days. One is pregnant with her first, another just announced that she's expecting her second (shhh, don't tell, it's still a secret). Several others have fresh baked goods at home. Cabana Boy and I once went to a big, riotous, alcohol-soaked party and it was filled with pregnant women and/or their recent offspring. It was the strangest thing. (I decided to abandon the "baking/bun" metaphor. You'll see why in a minute.)

I love babies. They're cute! All round and sweet and cuddly... and those toes! Those chunky thighs! And I generally like children too, though I find them less interesting from about age 10-18. I think children, as a concept, are super. But it's just not something I really want for myself. It's not that I can't nurture; I just know how much work it is, and frankly, right now, I don't have that much energy.

(See, I had to drop the "bun" metaphor because I really wanted to say "I love to eat bread, but I prefer for someone else to do the baking." And that sounds awkward and slightly cannabalistic, though I'm not necessarily averse to baby-eating humor.)

Thus, I spend a lot of time thinking about my uterus and how I can ensure that it remains vacant. Ultimately, what I've come up with is that "The Man" (or whatever you like to call the Judeo-Christian-political-industrial complex that controls the world) wants women to reproduce, and they make it as hard as possible to opt-out. As with telemarketers, I struggle to get on an effective "do not call" list. I think Margaret Sanger was a super-duper fierce rock star, but I worry about what dabbling with hormones will do to my body. All of the other options, from sheath to sponge to the big snip-snip, have some sort of negative side effect. It doesn't seem quite fair.

If I were a very strong feminist, I would say that this is also a way for "The Man" to prevent women from getting joy from their bodies. All because they need us to bear their heirs and ensure lineages! Have to keep us in line, while the men are blissfully frolicking around unzipped! But I'm not really that much of a feminist. It is what it is.

Still, it would be nice not to worry. Nice to not have to think about it. And maybe it's not such a big deal. Just pick a method; if it doesn't work, try another one. It's nothing to get hysterical about, right?