Long Overdue or Right On Time?
I’m trying to view this as a slow burn—keeping myself, and the eleven people who may still be tuning in, on the edge of uncertainty. How embarrassing to start something so publicly, with such vulnerability, only to let it fall by the wayside in an instant. Did Bri’s little writing hobby join the boneyard of her other forgotten interests, lying there next to a once beloved sourdough starter and her climbing shoes?
You could say this is long overdue or right on time. I have sat and stared at the rose colored document, aptly titled “Blog” only a couple of times over the last several months. Above this entry are three that never came to fruition. One droned on, apologizing to my parents for every life choice I have made that has now resulted in me living thousands of miles away from them for nearly a dozen years. Another touched on the continued and relentless inner dialogue that exists between my rational self, my running ego, and my faltering self-esteem. And the final was a rather colorless summary of life in France— life with a traveling husband, professional pitfalls, thoughts of family planning, wonders in general.
You get the idea. Honestly, I’m going to chalk up my radio silence to my failing confidence. I mean, I recognize that this exists solely for me, because of me. I can share as much or as little as I’d like. Though, my tendency is to share too much. And as a person who fears she has always been a little too much, it’s felt tricky. That, combined with this idea that I need to be an impressive writer— not just someone who is writing a blog, but someone who is writing as a writer. A wordsmith. A literary artist, serving up slabs of her heart and inviting you to do the same.
For fucks sake, who am I kidding?
Now. Today is my 298th day in France. I haven’t posted a blog in nearly 4 months. I suppose we have a lot to catch up on. In that time I have managed to:
obtain a SSN in France
get better at grocery shopping here
learn minimal French
get a slightly better haircut
teach in a way that is getting the job done but is leaving me uninspired
start and not finish painting our apartment
get in the habit of buying flowers
spend many hours working out in front of my television
go to Italy with Lucy
run a marathon by myself
run more than I could keep up with
try to slow down
feel entirely frustrated with my body
start taking prenatals
spend too much time on my phone
spend two months alone in France
cry watching Nils compete at Natural Selection
wonder why I was so far away
book a trip to Barcelona
add things to my calendar that I am excited about
bake and cook more
enjoy the changing seasons
stop taking cold showers
join the Trying To Conceive Club
I know, I know.
We’re not supposed to talk about that, Brianne. You’re supposed to keep that to yourself. It’s supposed to be a surprise, a secret.
But, being quiet is a demanding task. And nobody tells you that joining the TTC will result in a gauntlet of emotions that you were utterly unprepared for.
“Cue all the emotions! Overstimulating, lonely, uncertain, neurotic, hopeful, scared, excited. Come, have a seat, and please, talk louder! I could hardly hear you while I was trying to go about my daily life and pretend everything was just as it always is!”
I want to be The Cool Girl with all of this— calm, easy, going with the flow, low pressure. And as much as I am her, I am also her opposite. I’m equal parts hopeful and realistic. I’m all-consumed and totally unaware. Excited and terrified. And I’ve only just joined the club. I haven’t even taken a pregnancy test. I’m just… waiting. And what a weird space to exist in. Add that to the list of things no one warns you of.
I recognize that there are many potential outcomes as we start this journey. I also recognize that talking about trying to have a baby may seem taboo, strange, or feel like a little too much. Talking about running, French culture shock, the stock market, travel, or the lemon chicken soup recipe I tried would be much more palatable, more acceptable. I sense that the tides are changing on this though, and that’s a wave I’d like to ride. And, to be fair, family planning is something I have talked about for years at this point. It’s something I have known that I have wanted for a long time, though admitting such also seemed like a line I shouldn’t cross, as if I was already protecting myself and others from getting their hopes up. As if saying I wanted to be a parent was too vulnerable, too unaware of the fragility of the world, too much.
But the thing about all of this is—it is a little too much. Here I am, wondering if the Peanut M&M I just put in my mouth is somehow leading to an inhospitable womb, questioning if my cortisol levels have been suboptimal for years, on the verge of 34, and trying to remember that it’s likely all out of my control anyways.
So, there you have it—a long overdue but right on time overshare, far from poetic.
With love and crossed fingers from France.
