I am not a carton of milk
I Am Not a Carton of Milk
good to the last drop
It wasn’t until fairly recently that I realized that I’ve mentally been living from a place of scarcity, of time running out. Of course none of us will live forever - as a cancer survivor I’m patently aware of this - but that’s not what I’m referring to.
On a deep level I’ve been programmed to believe my worth as both a woman and a human being were necessarily dwindling as I age. Like a carton of milk on the shelf, waiting to be taken home from the store before I go off.
And if that didn’t happen? If I wasn’t “chosen” to be the bride in white…smiling for photos with a baby bump…talking about birth plans…and school pick ups…#momlife. What was the implied alternative? Utter irrelevance.
Women are taught that if they can no longer make a baby, they’re less desirable as a mate and less useful to our culture. Can’t help out with the propagation of the species? Delete.
And now that I’m here, on the other side of that perceived cliff? No drastic ravine. On the contrary, it’s a wide open vista with copious freedom, creative energy and exciting mystery. What’s next? I’m not sure but it’s up to me
I crossed over from angsty anticipation to exalted participation. Turns out, humans do not have a sell-by date. We do not spoil. On the contrary, as a woman inching out of her 40’s I feel better in my skin, have more earned knowledge to tap and more resources to utilize in the pursuit of, well…whatever the hell I want.