I'm 44 years old and I'm three weeks late.
Yep, not good.
So last night, my husband and I had 'The Talk'. The one where we hunker down and go through the ramifications of what we are going to do IF. Even though we both know there is no IF, because rationally, for reasons I shall not go into for fear of making you, and him, blush, it just ain't possible. But the fact remains that I am late. And three weeks for me is a seriously big deal. You are talking to the woman who, throughout her twenties, could time her periods by her watch. Every fourth Thursday, 10am. Clockwork. Even when I was anorexic. Never missed a bloody one, even when I was six and a half stone. Never had a scare that was any longer than four days. Never.
And then we went down to the 24 hour supermarket and bought a pregnancy test.
(Which would have been fine if we hadn't bumped into an old acquaintence at the checkout, and believe you me, when you are 44 and 3 weeks late, you don't want to be caught with a Clearview pack at 8pm in Tesco by someone you haven't seen in 10 years, and who has a basket full of Johnsons baby wipes because they've just had their THIRD!)
And then did the three minutes of sweating and waiting for the test to prove NEGATIVE, just as we knew it would.
And then we were both sad.
Not that we in any way regret the choice of being childfree that life has dealt us. I know that being a mother is just not right for me, not simply because of my health, but because of my temperament. I don't have the patience or the interest, and I am terrified of schools. But still. It might have been my last chance. And thats a very miserable thought.
So now I am 44 years old and 3 weeks late and definitely NOT pregnant (but mourning very slightly). Which can only mean one thing:
And believe me, I am just not, in any way, shape or form, ready for that. I dye my hair, for Gods' sake. I am in total denial of my wrinkles and age spots, and the fact that I can remember the Winter of Discontent and the drought of 1976. I just bought a sequinned mini skirt! This can't be happening! Pregnancy would have been a picnic by comparison! (And before you go wondering about my health and all the other things that could make me miss, let me put your mind at rest. I'm pretty sure that it can't be something nasty in that particular woodshed because menopause comes pretty early amongst the women in my family. But I will get it checked, just to put your mind at ease.) So here I am, curled up on the sofa, waiting for Mr Flow to come to town, and having a mid-life crisis.