How Do You Like Your Eggs?

Fried? Poached? Scrambled?

Sorry. Fertile is not on the breakfast menu.

My married friend, Mary, is feeling clucky. So is my next door neighbor. My work colleagues. My high school friends. Even the cat next door. In fact, most women I know are starting to feel, or rather hear, the unmistakable sound of their biological clocks ticking as loud as the deafening sound of Krakatoa. It seems world’s not-old-not-young Gen-Xers in high heels (and trainers) are popping out Gen-C left, right and centre. And the rest who aren’t popping are clucky-ing.

And lining up on the IVF program.

You see, while eggs keep fresh in the fridge for a while, it seems Mary’s eggs had been fridged a little too long.

Mary’s clucky predicament started five years ago. She had just turned 35. I, on the other hand, was a spring chicken hatched from an egg. We were both single, sharing a cbd loft near the trendy bars we frequent in search of an alpha male. To fulfill an existential purpose. To remedy Mary’s clucky predicament; spawn her progeny. Before it’s too late.

Though time was on my side, I was in search of a similar thing. Minus the cluckiness.

A strong man.

Preferably six feet tall. No less.

With good genes.

Handsome, of course.

With a modest to high IQ.

With a wish list like mine and a severe case of the clucks like Mary’s, we’ll have better luck at the sperm bank. It’s as easy as ticking the box. Problem was, I wanted a beau, not a bambino. And Mary was a hopeless romantic.

Like two wayward heroines armed with heels that could kill, we braved the single jungle. We explored the depths of serial dating to mastery. We lived and ruled singletown. Wantonly. As the soles of our Jimmy Choos pared and thinned traipsing through countless bars only to exhaust our charms on heart-thieves, tricksters and disingenuous gentlemen, we oft but plodded home barefoot and depleted. Optimistic, nonetheless.

And, with a bagful of phone numbers we will never call!

We learnt a fact most enlightening. Today’s postmodern courtship dance (usually) starts with an alcohol-induced dalliance that ends all too abruptly as soon as one settles into the beat of the drum.

But I wonder.

Perhaps they hear the loud tick of Mary’s biological clock.

Or does the word “Commitment” slowly appear on my forehead on closer inspection?

Ah, whatever!

After much rumination, we came to a moment of illumination: if this be our lot, then our lot be full!

Faster than one can say please, the heavens opened. The universe listened. The world revealed its secret. Like sinners finding deliverance, Mary found an equally clucky prince.

I found my six-foot-two Strong Man.

With good genes and a high IQ.

Handsome, of course.

Our monomania cured. Almost. Five years on and with clucky prince in tow, Mary’s cluck has found no luck. And time is no friend to a woman clucking in her almost-40s. She has the prince alright – with an army of eager squirmy warriors. But damn those eggs!

So Mary ditched me for her new best friends: Ivy F. Ob Gyn. Weird names. Weird people. They fuss over her eggs!

Personally, I like mine sunny-side-up.

Robelen Bajar is a writer with a cluckaphobia.