The End of an Ovum

Yesterday I looked around at various piles of mess that had accumulated everywhere and realized with dismay that I didn’t care whether they were cleaned up or not. I didn’t see the point. This happens to me often.  

Every … oh, I don’t know, thirty days or so? For the last 25-30 years? Sir said you’d think I’d see it coming.

But last night as we were lying in bed, I turned to Sir, 

« I feel such a sense of despair. »

« Why do you think that is? » he asks, puzzled.

« Well … » I groped for the words. « It’s like I’m not fulfilling any purpose. I’m not this super creative person, like a writer with crumpled paper all around her bed as she types away furiously. Or a painter with blue paint all over her overalls and some on her nose. Who cares if her house is a mess? She’s painting a masterpiece!  I’m not any of those things. I try to be creative, you know, with scrapbooking. And sometimes I think I should sew or something but if I don’t already fill those empty hours with creating, it probably won’t change if I add another hobby.»

« Neither am I simple and methodical, taking pleasure in simply running a home like Danila or Jocelyn. I’m not like that little mouse in the storybooks that wears an apron, sweeps out her little hovel, adjusts the painting on the wall, and sits down to tea and a cheese soufflé, perfectly content. I’m not like you, who with a couple of free hours will build or fix something in the home just to make it a better place to live. »

« Yeah, why is that? » interrupts Sir mischievously.

I ignore him and carry on. « I do the basics, you know – make sure my family is well-clothed and well-fed. I make sure the dishes get done at least every couple of days (I know, I know) and I vacuum up crumbs when I can finally no longer stand walking on them. But I am neither one nor the other – neither a creative source nor an orderly one, and that makes me feel a sense of despair. »

« Hmm. » Sir thinks. « What exactly happens to you each month?  I mean, why do you feel such promise at the beginning of it and such despair at the end?»

« Well, » I said laughing a little, « On an esoteric level, at the beginning of each month there’s the possibility of creating a new life, which inspires such hope and promise – such possibilities.  And at the end of it the possibility is dashed. »

« And then on a physical level, » I went on, « the hormones … »

« No, no. Let’s go back to the esoteric level, » Sir said excitedly. « I think you were on to something there. You have trouble creating because each month your subconscious works on creating the most important thing – life! Why waste your energy on anything else?

That’s probably why there are more male artists than female. Men can’t produce the most important creation there is so they have to settle for other arts.   But they can’t create life itself.  Although, I mean, they can assist … »

« With great pleasure, » I add with a grin.

« With great pleasure, » he adds laughing.

And that was the end of the conversation.

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