It's an old blues standard, with a two-line chorus:
Tell me how long do I have to wait
Can I get you now baby or must I hesitate?
On the heels of another twenty-day menstrual cycle, I'm trying not to worry. I've read that this could be the beginning of menopause, or simply a sign of stress, or, scarier, thyroid or pituitary disorder, or then again, a result of increased blood flow from all the fabulous sex I've been having. In any case, it feels like last call for baby making, and though I've bellied up to the bar, I'm not ready to place that final order, not quite yet.
Neither J~ nor I want to begin a pregnancy living apart. Nor do we want to rush the timeline of combining our lives. There is still some ground to cover, and pleasure to take in the work. It doesn't feel like a lot of ground, but if it takes too long, then so be it. At the risk of over-stretching the bar analogy, I'll say this: I'm determined to enjoy the drink in front of me before ordering another.
But once I do, better make mine a double.