So, having turned 36 with a spectacular display of Not Pregnant, and having time on my hands (I have a few days off), I looked back over the past few years, achievements thereof, and had a complete and total fucking melt-down.
Which was jolly.
It’s hard to talk about this. I have a good marriage to a lovely man. I have a job (and I have been unemployed long enough and often enough to know exactly how excellent that is). I have a roof over my head, and enough money to pursue hobbies and eat well and go on occasional holidays. I have several university degrees. I have all my own limbs. I have a pension fund. By many objective measures, I am doing just dandy, thank you. Better than dandy. Pig in clover.
But what I wanted, was a different career altogether. A different life altogether, really. With a child. And H and I are living this life, this holding-pattern, really, because we want said child and want to be able to provide for this child if/when we have it. It rather precludes my flinging my job to the winds and accepting several years of financial uncertainty and general wobble and anxst while I make a go of the other career. Which won’t be much of an earner anyway even if I do nail it.
At some point we’re going to have to give up trying for a baby. And I will have lost the dream of children, yes, but also the dream of my other life, because I spent all my 30s holding on to the sensible job with maternity leave and a pension, and waiting, and I shall be spat out at 40 with nothing.
But hey, I’ll have a pension.
Do you know what? I’m going to go find the whisky bottle, that’s what.