Flotsam

Wednesday I attended the first class of a ten-week Mind/Body Infertility Program. The program was developed by Alice Domar, a professor of medicine at Harvard who conducted studies showing that patients suffering infertility report levels of stress as high as those with cancer or AIDS. Domar studied the effects of relaxation exercises upon fertility, or some such, and developed a ten-week course to reduce anxiety and depression in infertility patients. A course I am now taking.
Now, when I first heard of it, I thought it sounded like a very expensive way to be told to Just Relax. But I am willing to stipulate that stress, anxiety, and depression do have physiological repercussions, and thankfully, Domar’s book goes out of its way to emphasize the fact that infertility is a medical condition—no amount of mantra meditation is going to unblock someone’s tubes or cause me to ovulate.
Besides, I am not taking this class expecting to become expecting. I am taking it for two reasons:
1. I have an anxiety disorder, and even were I fertile as a clam I would be in a position (namely: prone, weeping) to benefit from a bit of stress relief.
2. The opportunity to spend ten weeks with other women going through infertility, with the possibility of tricking one of them into being friends with me…well, this was simply not an opportunity I could pass up.

So how did it go, you ask? Well…let me tell you.

TUESDAY EVENING: I finally get around to perusing the program outline. I knew that partners were invited for the ninth week class, which is a couples retreat–I think there is Yoga involved, and more importantly, a catered lunch. What I did not know is that partners were to attend the first week as well. The Nearly, of course, is out of town.
Huh.
WEDNESDAY–(Times Are Approximate):
4:53 PM: The class starts at six–I leave work, driving Mario Andretti-like towards downtown…for the first five minutes, until I find myself behind a baseball-capped young man in a green Honda who is simultaneously conducting an animated cellular phone conversation and searching for something on the floor of his car. I know this because he occasionally drops out of sight, phone to ear, popping up moments later with something in his hand which he then throws into the backseat. The clock ticks, and I fume, my foot tap, tap, tapping the accelerator. My hair looks awful, I need a shower, and I have not eaten since breakfast. Also, the Nearly returns late tonight, and I have yet to clean the apartment (See Lethargy, Metformin-Induced).
5:13 PM: I sprint from my car to my apartment, lunge into the kitchen, and smear some peanut butter on a piece of bread, which I then fold in half and consume with one hand as the other sweeps empty water bottles into a large garbage bag and stacks dirty dishes in the sink.
5:19 PM: I wash three plates, one bowl, four forks, three glasses, and a pan. The effect on the dirty dish pile is negligible.
5:25 PM: I yank off my sweater and pants, look at the clock, and realize there is not time for a shower. I also realize I have no clean clothes, and the ones I just removed are wet from my rapid-fire dishwashing. I pluck a skirt and shirt—both wrinkled—from my dry-cleaning box. I spray myself liberally with perfume.
5:30 PM: Slather face with Benefit Moonbeam in attempt to approximate clean glowing complexion without actually washing face. Apply bronzing powder, which blotches. Wash face.
5:32 PM: Reapply makeup, blow dry already dry hair in attempt to fluff it up. This backfires dramatically.
5:38 PM: Attempt to smooth tumbleweed atop head. Flip ends up w/ curling iron. Want to cry but don’t, as it will ruin my makeup.
5:42 PM: Rush out the door.
5:43 PM: Rush back in the door to slather lotion on my legs, revealed by combination of skirt and sunlight to be dry and reptilian.
5:44 PM: Back in my car, I decide to take side streets in order to avoid the congested highway. A white Buick turns onto the road in front of me.
5:50 PM: Still driving behind Buick. Though “driving” may not be the most accurate term. So—Still coasting behind Buick.
5:56 PM: White Buick turns, and I lurch forward through a red light. Here I go, making up for lost time!
5:57 PM: Beige Oldsmobile turns onto the road in front of me.
6:06 PM: I jolt into the parking lot of the center where the class is to be held, on the campus of a Catholic college. I burst from my car and clomp up the steps. There is a sign by a doorbell which I ignore, flinging open the outer door only to come to a crashing stop at the—very locked—inner door.
6:07 PM: I go back outside and ring the doorbell. The sign above it says “For admittance, please ring the doorbell. One of The Sisters will be with you shortly.” Fine. It’s a Catholic college, after all.
6:09 PM: I am back in the vestibule when the inner door is answered by a tiny, tiny woman in a long, holy-looking smock. Another tiny be-smocked woman peers from the shadows.
“Yes, My Child?” says the nun. Well, not the “My Child” part, actually.
“I’m here for the infertility class!” I burst.

I wish I were a skillful enough prose stylist to convey the depth of shock on her wizened face. Alas, you will just have to use your imagination, and try to picture the facial expression of a 96-year old Catholic virgin—a Bride of Christ—when she hears the phrase “I’m here for the infertility class.”
Please remember that what she actually heard was probably “Please direct me to the class for those attempting to thwart God’s Will.”

6:10 PM: A moment of silence, during which I cast my eyes into the space beyond the doorway. Huh. Large cross. Darkened halls. Less community center, more Nunnery. Oh my god.
“There’s no class like that here,” says The Sister.
6:11 PM: It is determined that I am in the wrong building. The Center is a nearly identical building half a block West on campus.
6:12 PM: I go there. As quickly as possible.
6:14 PM: I skid, singly, into a room full of couples holding hands. My therapist, who runs the class, is speaking from the front of the room. 28 heads swivel my way. I shuffle down a row into an empty seat—between two couples. I smile at them wildly.
6:15 PM: Sitting there, I notice a…scent. I realize that the “lotion” I hurriedly smeared on my legs (back at 5:43) was a never-before used bottle received as a Christmas gift. Never-before used because it is aggressively scented with papaya. It does not mix well with my perfume. I smell like fruit rotting. In a whorehouse.
6:18 PM: Each time one of the couples on either side of me changes position, I am convinced they are trying to escape the smell that wafts sickeningly from me. I am massively relieved when we are told to pull our chairs into a large circle. I pull mine towards the back of the room—near the door, for ventilation.
6:20 PM: Once settled, we are asked to take turns stating our name and One Interesting Thing About Ourselves. People mention their occupations, the college they attended, recent travels, or the fact that they raise champion Pit Bulls. I am panicking. I can feel everyone thinking I am too young, not infertile enough, that my legs smell like Paris Hilton. It is my turn.
“I’m Alexa…” I say. Now an interesting thing! Anything—I have three cats! I love cheese! My legs don’t normally smell like this!

“Well, I just frightened a nun!!!” I shrill instead.

Pray with me that first impressions are overrated.