What does the sperm say to the egg?
Today my sister and I were making fun of me. It’s one of our favorite pastimes, and in case this sounds self deprecating (sometimes true) it wasn’t; I find it healthy to laugh at myself from time to time. And anyway, everyone else laughs at me so I might as well join the fun!
I’m getting older, and lately you would think I was trying to get pregnant; my hair is growing faster, my notoriously short fingernails are noticeably longer and now I find I actually have to file the buggers, and my girly cycle has changed; sped up. Bodhi joked that I’m reaching the last possible windows of opportunity for pregnancy, so my body is just shooting eggs out of me like a machine gun…pap pap pap. Come on, make a baby, pap pap pap.
It reminded us of an episode of the Bachelor, when the bachelor had just met all his possible future ex-wives, and one girl stood out among the rest. Professional. Dark hair. Short and tiny, like a cute little thing should be. Not that she was all that cute, but if a guy wants a pocket wife, she would do. They seemed a perfectly likely pair, in her eyes, because she worked in the medical field, and he was…I don’t know, handsome? She said something to him that went kind of like: “ok, so my eggs are going to waste and I’ve got to get started if I want to have a kid, so…what do you think?” Now of course, this is a paraphrase, but she really did talk about her eggs going to waste, or shriveling, or something horrendously awkward when you are talking to a man you are trying to convince into dating you. No hand holding; no snuggling; just gimme the sperm so I can be a mommy already.
This led us into wonderment over the female womb and internals. Perhaps if it’s been a long time since the last sexual partner the female doorway to heaven creaks open noisily, like a haunted house in a Vincent Price movie, begrudgingly letting someone through the threshold and into the dark wonders. Creak…creak…
Are there cobwebs? Do the little sperms have to fight their way around dust bunnies and spider webs, desperately looking for the little egg he is so eager to find?
Does it echo in there? “HELLO!” the sperm shouts into the vast, empty darkness. “HeLLo” “Hello” “hello”. *sigh* He should have brought a sack lunch and a bottle of water; this looks to be a long journey…
It is windy today, the day after a small storm blows through the town. The branches have been wrested off of trees, and lay in random configurings throughout the park, on the street, in the dirt. It is sunny, and blue, and warm today. But not too warm. Not muggy like it was yesterday, just before the storm hit. Not swealtery. It is a perfect summer day, with a slight breeze, and a slow, unconcerned ticking of the hands on the clock. This day could last forever. All of eternity might exist in this one meandering day of summer.
Not like last night, when the wind picked up speed, and shook the telephone poles, and forced strange worried sounds out of the trees. Not like the flurry of activity that occurred as people ran into houses and buildings, trying to escape the fierce breath of the wind forcing against them, making them feel like they are walking on treadmills, rather than out for an evening stroll.
The dirt from the road construction beats against the early evening walkers, pelting their eyes and faces with speckles of sand. Grit and grime cling to the walkers as the rain smatters the earth. Lightning flashes, electricity sparks, and the sky grows dark far too quickly. “We must press on,” the two tell each other in loud voices, trying to be heard over the distant cries of fire trucks and ambulances. “We must continue to move”. On they travel, faster now, trying to reach their destination before they get caught in the destructive force of the sudden storm. And finally reaching the rendezvous point, they make the drop, exchange the goods, and head out again into the face of certain doom. And yes, the world is a darker place now. Now that they have acquired the package. The surrounding environment seems heavier, bleaker, more kissed by the lips of city than it was just a moment ago. But still they press on, this time headed for a different destination. A safer place. A quieter place. Somewhere they can finally rest.
And once at the safe destination, the travelers are finally able to think about the morrow, and the hope of the shining sun. Perhaps they WILL survive the night, now that they have risked lung and limb to acquire what must be had. And so finally, our two weary sojourners collapse in heaps, open the precious parcel, and withdraw the potentially dangerous goods. “Ahhhh,” says the one to the other, “this is so what I needed”. And drowning herself in her Blue Moon, she forgets about the long day, and the hard life, and the inner turmoil, and floats away on a river of tasty hoppiness. Accidental hoppiness, perhaps. And she drinks herself silly, and determines that all will be well in the morning.
And it is.