who needs love when the sandwiches are wicked and they know you at the mac store

Yesterday, between finishing overdue work for clients, attending a university board lunch, meeting with a potential client, having coffee with someone to talk about organizing an upcoming conference, and answering questions from my editor about my book, I managed to wedge in time to meet with the surgeon about permanent sterilization. The juxtaposition of rushing and rushing and rushing to meet work obligations while at the same time stopping long enough to think about LIFE CHOICES in a thoughtful and ponderous way struck me as being a bit ridiculous and surreal.

This isn’t about woe is me, I’ll never have children and a family. In fact, if anything, I feel a sense of relief, And that, really, is the crux of the angst, all tangled up in a melodramatic questioning of the blackness of my soul.

What reflection is it on a woman who never felt the maternalistic ticking of the biological clock? What does it say about me that I’m happy with my life exactly the way it is, so devoid of the traditional surroundings of happiness? Is my soul constructed with a fundamental design flaw?

I feel like an orphan and I build my family from non-standard parts. But I don’t feel sad and lonely and wistful of a life I don’t have. I feel free and hopeful and like I belong in the world.

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