I feel oh-so-pretty
I just ordered my BOWEL PREPARATION (I can’t not capitalize that–it’s just so horrible sounding) on the interweb. Why not just pick it up at the local drugstore? Well, one of my former students works at the only convenient pharmacy, and I’m just so tired of him being a part of my IF journey. First of all, he did poorly in my class, so every time I see him, I’m like, dude, too bad about that D. Second, although I’m sure he’s got better things to do than judge me, I couldn’t help but think I saw a knowing look in his eye every time he handed me my bag o’ o.vidrel. A look that said, maybe I got a D in your class, but at least I’m not infertile. So I think I’ll get my laxative with a bit less human interaction, thanks. This distasteful purchase is just the latest in a series of events that make me feel like the ugliest, most defective female on the planet.
It’s not surprising that IF has undermined my self-confidence, since being able to bear children is a large part of my cultural sense of what it means to be a woman. And I never had a ton of self-confidence anyway, despite the objective knowledge that I’m perfectly adequate-looking. But now I look in the mirror and see a dried up old harpy with a weirdly large ass. It doesn’t help that the fashion world has decided long tops and skinny pants flatter the women of today. They totally don’t flatter me, and I’m a size 2. So now I can’t even buy clothes, and am running around naked as a result.
I guess I can only hope that I have a body-destroying baby, and get some all new reasons for feeling unattractive.