So said Ovid.
I don’t want to exaggerate my rank among the infertiliterati. I haven’t been reading Metamorphoses. I have been reading Jeffrey Eugenides’ Middlesex, which – besides helping me Keep My Mind Off Things and containing stunningly inaccurate stuff about the relationship of ovulation, body temperature, and conception – contains that little bit of eggy wisdom.
It’s true. Everything comes from an egg. Or, a tad more poetically: From an egg, everything.
Everything. What I’m sure Ovid didn’t detail is that before Everything, there is the Beginning of Everything, which comes during the two weeks after there is an egg and before Everything proper begins. The Beginning of Everything contains things that I’m sure Ovid did not write about. Like fascinating and ever-increasing breast swelling. Like the purchasing of unreasonably expensive pairs of jeans. And the checking and re-checking of the calendar to see how many days it’s been. And the obsessive ingestion of orange Milanos. With big glasses of milk to balance out the carbs.
Anyway. I ovulated yesterday. And now the Beginning of Everything begins. And so far I am just as calm as can be. I know that the obsession is bound to ratchet up to earsplitting, unbearable, Milano-binge-inducing levels over the next fourteen days. For now, I am feeling so cool it’s a little ridiculous. I’m feeling like, “Huh. If I’m pregnant, I am, and if I’m not, I can drink a lot of wine.” I’m feeling like, “Yeah, I think I’ll wait until I have eighteen high temperatures to even pee on a stick.”
Yeah. I’m sure waiting eighteen days will be no problem at all.