Helene Combe

Through my journey as an English teacher and a language learner

Month: January 2017

Don’t talk about my uterus,please

So, as you know, I got married five months ago. It’s pretty recent, and every time I tell people that I just got married, the reaction is mostly always the same:

When will you have a baby? 

And my answer is pretty much always the same also: My cat won’t allow it.

The truth is: I don’t want a baby. I mean, at some point, yes, like in two or three years, but not right now. And every time I am saying this, that I am not ready, that I have others plans (like I don’t know, graduating from Cambridge University, going on vacations, having a new job, be stable), people are always responding with that tiny sentence which give me the impression that they want me to stroke them to death: you are getting older, you should think about it.

Let me get this straight: I am not forty, or thirty something, I am twenty eight. 28 years old. I am fucking young. I am so young, I still shop at Primark. I am wearing my Harry Potter sweatshirt right now. I am not old. I don’t want random people telling me I am old. You just don’t  go in front of people telling them they are old. What’s the next step, asking them what kind of casket they want? Imagine you do that kind of thing in front of a handsome forty something guy whose girlfriend is twenty something. How do you think he will react if you tell him he’s fucking old and he should hide underground until death? He is going to kick your sorry ass.

Asking a woman why she is childless is rude. It’s even ruder when the woman is still young and it’s apparently crazy that she doesn’t have a child yet. Sorry to burst the bubble, but a child is not an achievement. You got laid, your forget your condom and BAM! Having a degree, a stable situation, buy an apartment, that’s an achievement. Reproducing is NOT an achievement. Everybody can do it, but not everybody can decide it.

Since when talking about human part, in my case, my uterus, is allowed in public? Are we free to talk about testicles either? If you see a childless thirty something, will you ask him if his balls are going to fall? No, because a man’s achievement is not reproducing, and even then, we don’t talk publicly about penises or testicles, it’s called common sense. Talking about uteruses, not a problem, but testicles, you can try, everybody is going to be offended.

So,my uterus, and what I do with it, it’s nobody’s business. It’s fucking rude to ask a woman why she is childless and it’s worse to remember her that time is passing. We all know that, we are all going to die this kind of stuff. But we also know that we can do what the fuck we wanna do and we don’t need someone’s approval.

I am not sure I want to grow up

Okay, let me get this straight. It’s been a while now that every time I open Facebook, all the news and status are about engagement/upcoming wedding/pregnancy announcement. And I have strictly nothing to say since I did get married four months ago.

This year is gonna be the busiest year I ever had, and I mean it: I am leaving my current job, I am going back to college (not virtually, really going back into a real campus and all), my parents are selling the house they have since 1954 (ok, that means my grand parents bought it, whatever), meaning I’ll have some money out of it. It’s like everything I dreamed about the past two decades are coming true.

But the fact is, I don’t react the way I expected to. Nowadays, all the topics that my friends, or family, even my husband chose to talk about bored me. I don’t wanna talk about mortgages. I wanna talk about travels, not the bathroom redecoration. I don’t wanna talk about taxes and gas costs and how buying a dryer would be so practical.

I don’t wanna talk about all these things because I don’t care.

Don’t get me wrong I am not a spoiled child or anything. I just don’t want to think so hard about living. I want to be spontaneous and not thinking ten years ahead because I don’t know where I am going to be in ten years.

Two days ago, I was sitting on my bed, in my fancy hotel room in Monte Carlo, preparing to go to a party on another fancy place in Monaco, and I really enjoyed it. All the fanciness of course, but also the pleasure I had to prepare myself for an event which doesn’t include a baby, a boring discussion about Trump or the Brexit, or even my personal life. It was all about fun. And I need that fun part back. (I also need the same bedsheets as in Monaco, because they were awesome,but that’s another story)

I am afraid I don’t want to grow up. But I feel fine.

 

The Game of Life

So, at a certain point of your life, you get to play a bright new game, the one you are gonna love winning and when you do, you like saying you do. I call this “The Game of Life”.

Let me introduce it properly.

You know what happened when you break up with someone and you secretly expect them to have a shitty life? That’s what exactly what that game is. We all play it, it’s natural, it’s also called “you dumped me, it’s done, but I am so much better than you, look at all my achievements, you loser.” Well, “The Game of Life” is shorter.

So, in my particular case, considering who I used to date before I met my husband, I was winning by default, but still, I like to reassure myself.

My BFF likes to tell me that her former GF couldn’t keep a girlfriend more than two weeks when she (my best friend) was married since three years now and having twins.

One of my other friend used to stalk her former BF until he broke up with his girlfriend. Now that he’s back at his mom’s place, she feels better.

And me, well, I checked every box on the happiness form: I even enrolled to Cambridge University. But still, every time something good is happening to him I am thinking : you are not gonna win.

I do realize who witchy I may sound right now, but it’s pretty much what I have in mind. At least, I don’t pretend I want the best for my exes. I wish them nothing but the worse.

You shouldn’t have dumped me on fourth grade, you loser.

(note: this is very cynical, but not entirely false. That also means it’s not entirely true – I am not trying to jinx myself here)

© 2019 Helene Combe

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