Yui & I

I sometimes envision my uterus as an ornery old Japanese biddy . Let's call her Yui. Yui is nurturing and life-giving but let's face it. She's also a bit of a stubborn sociopath. Not to mention set in her ways and over dramatic to a fault.

Week one. Post period. I am allowed to exist in a state of gung-ho indifference because, ever optimistic, Yui is once again busy building a home for her someday future inmate.She lovingly chooses matching wallpaper and carpeting. She crochets color coordinated cushions and table doilies. Blood red on blood red is always a winning combination. Week two . I'm still allowed to go about my life as usual. There are the occasional ups and downs but it's all water off a ducks back to me. I practically radiate peace, love and light . Meanwhile, Yui Is digging up her old recipe books. This months special? Eggs. It's always eggs. Yuis' culinary repertoire hasn't been updated in millennia.

Undeterred by my staunch refusal to give her life a purpose and Initiate a would-be-human Into her care. Yui continues slaving over her culinary objet d'art . The carpet has been put down, the walls have insulation, those eggs they are a-cookin... and I can practically hear her humming.This months going to be THE month.

Yui is completely oblivious of my plans to the contrary and so we co-exist In happy harmony.

Week three. The first glitches show up. The highs are a little higher and the lows are getting lower. My standards? those are rock bottom.

Yui is unhappy with me. Her eggs are getting cold and she wants guests to show up. NOW.

At this stage Yui isn't averse to pointing out the sort of guy whom she thinks would really appreciate her eggs. That one, she nudges, those are good genes walking around in a nice pair of jeans right there. Aghast, I explain that we can't just take any old genes which strike our fancy. There are finicky little details like consent and bodily autonomy to consider.

Yui doesn't care. Yui wants a baby, she sulks.

Sadly, the only things standing between Yui and her choice of genetic material are decency, decorum and a modicum of common sense.

Week four. Major free fall.I cry if people so much as look at me wrong. The world is dark. Dark and bleak.

Yui is sullen and angry. I try to appease her with a steady stream of sugary snacks and all the chips my body can handle. I serenade her with the latter day warbling of Leonard Cohen. Yui is unmoved.

I have wronged her yet again.

She is literally puffed up with suicidal rage and threatening imminent harakiri. The eggs are gone and there is STILL no baby. She is a disgrace to the name of her house and she will have her vengeance.

Eventually the rage wins out. It always does.

Wallpaper is ripped down, carpets are viciously torn up. Upholstery is wantonly trashed. Yui is clearly the sort of guest who throws motorbikes out of hotel room windows if the mini-bar isn't to their liking.Those crochet needles are now weapons of mass destruction.

There is blood. Blood everywhere .

Yui apologizes and offers to make more eggs to make up for it. Next time it will be different she says. Like the gullible idiot I am. I believe her.