Daydreaming can be a dangerous endeavor, especially when one begins reaching, via the mind, for those things believed to be physically elusive. But ever since the ride home from a USTA tennis league match last night with my amazing neighbor, Karen, I’ve been high, and it’s not just because I’ve been on Vicodin for the last 24 hours (I have a mysterious ankle injury).
Karen is a throwback – the kind of woman who sips cocktails in the afternoon, studies French for the fun of it and will go to any length to help a friend in need. Her help last night arrived during a winding, North-bound trip up Lake Shore Drive. After griping about our dilapidated playing surface, which gave more bad bounces than a square ball, we dished about the end of our current ovulation cycle and the vicious act of icing my testicles.
“That must be fairly uncomfortable,” she said. “How often and for how long do you have to do that?”
“An hour a day for the entire week leading up to ovulation.” We talked about the many fertility facts I’ve discovered during the process: sperm starts to “dissolve” after three days inside of a man, but can live for up to five inside of a woman. Having sex on ovulation day is practically useless because the egg will be shriveled by the time the sperm arrives – it’s best to have some waiting for it.
Karen and I laughed ferociously in the face of our dilemma, but laughed even hardier when repeatedly sidetracked by suave poseurs attempting to bridge middle age using nothing but a convertible and a several bottles of hair product. Chicago’s lakeside strip is known for it’s fast cars, voracious athletes and the cocky, smarmy men engaged in both.
“Well, I have to tell you that I’ve got a great feeling about you guys,” Karen said after the laughter subsided. “You know, you both checked out with no problems. I really think it’s going to happen soon.”
“Thanks, Karen. I really appreciate hearing that.”
“Well, it’s true. I just know it’s going to happen soon.”
I didn’t want to tell her, or anyone for that matter, but I’ve been sporting that feeling, too. I just have this feeling that we’re going to be pregnant by Christmas. And while I know that what’s true in the political sphere is true in the personal realm – feelings aren’t facts, and no amount of goodwill can compensate for proof – I persist.
And if I’m wrong, and if you find me foolish, I totally respect your feelings. But we’ve got nothing to lose and a baby to gain. I’m putting my hypothesis, and Karen’s, out for the world to do with it what it may.
I’m tired of living cautiously, and I’m far better at fearlessness.