It's Tuesday morning and I should be in bed, curled up in a valley of pillows. Instead, I'm wandering the house, harvesting totally unnecessary items, and putting them in a cheap-ass duffle bag.
Heather and I are going to work for half the day, then heading to Nashville. I keep trying to sell it to myself as a road trip, but, god, nobody really wants to be trapped in a car for four hours, dodging semis and SUVs, and it's not like we get to take adventurous side jaunts to see the Casey Jones museum. I'm not altogether sure who Casey Jones was-- something to do with trains?-- and, unless it comes up in tomorrow's seminar (gold stars for the fertility clinic if it does), I'm not going to find out his week.
I told Heather, after careful thought, that I was going to wear makeup to the class. I'll feel more confident, I said. I want to fit in-- or maybe stick out least-- in the IVF class, and somehow I feel that putting on makeup will signal to everyone that I'm serious, knowledgeable, and adorably pink-cheeked. Oh, god, do we have to practice giving shots? I don't know how this works, but I'm pretty sure the injections are somewhere in there, and manual dexterity is just not my thing.
It's time to get ready for work-- yes, I'm wearing makeup for that, too-- so I'll leave you with this uplifting link about how there's no telling whether your cryobank is scamming you with diseased sperm:
His sperm, they would later discover, was decades old, originally donated at a laboratory halfway across the country and frozen ever since. Whether it was properly tested is a matter of dispute.
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