Being told that I looked younger than my age by the woman who drew my blood this morning (who also posed the question, "Do you mind if I ask how you got your last name?”) nearly made up for being offered a seat on the subway on the way to my appointment. I honestly don't think I look pregnant but this has been happening with increasing regularity (I've been heavier in my life and never got this treatment–it must be metabo, as they might say in Japan) to the point where I now try to suck in my stomach, stand as straight as possible with my shoulders back when standing on the subway to fend off these horrible, well-intentioned seat-givers.
Ok, paranoia kicked in and had to go check my profile in the bathroom mirror. I’m not going to take a photo, but no, I do not look pregnant, just like a tallish woman who wears a size L. Maybe I should just flattered that I look young enough to still be fertile.
I was asked by doctor who I’ve not seen in two years (I was scolded heavily and told that taking birth control pills with uncontrolled high blood pressure could give me a stroke. I had only been worrying about heart failure and diabetes—now I have a new ailment to fixate on) if I planned on having kids, and her answer to my “no” was the same as last time: “thank, god.” But this time, perhaps because I am closer to the too late phase, she tempered this by saying that I could get pregnant if I wanted, but I’d have to be switched to an old-fashioned 1950s blood pressure medication, that was all, and if I changed my mind that was fine. Good to know, but still…no. I don’t foresee a change of heart.
And despite the nurse’s flattering surprise at the year of my birth, I will never be one of those aging ladies who thinks their ovaries are still fresh and viable because they have a youthful appearance.