et tu, ovaries?

I have been betrayed. No, not in a reality television, semi-scripted, my friend hooked up with my fake ex sort of way. No, this betrayal was much more Shakespearian than Hills-ian. It's my ovaries. Those bitches have sold me out.

Apparently, my eggs have passed their best before date. While I was establishing a career, taking trips to Europe, crushing on men of varying degrees of appropriateness, and generally living the life of a fairly responsible single girl, my ovaries got tired of being unappreciated and decided to retire on the Freedom 41 plan. They didn't even give me any notice. You'd think there'd be an alarm, maybe a little sticker, something. Nope. Just poof - gone.

Well, not really gone, exactly, but they have stopped returning my calls. Now that I have the time, and the house with the spare room, and the desire to put them to work, my doctor tells me it's too late. I have old eggs. I was shocked. I only went for the tests because I was turning 41. I've never failed a test before. So I took it again. Big old F.

I wasn't expecting this. I mean, I don't look anywhere near 41 on the outside. Does Retin A not do anything for the fine lines on my reproductive system? I always thought when I was emotionally ready to have a kid, my body would step up, not back away. And now I'm left with an empty room (and an empty womb) where a kid was supposed to be.

I can't really say I should have done it sooner. I wasn't ready. There was Paris to see. And it's not like the stellar cast of My So Called Dating Life ('sup, Jordan Catalano?) deserved to go dutch on a chromosome split. I'm just used to being the one making the decisions. And to not have that option sucks.