Normally, you’re the one telling me not to be melodramatic and negative.

That was old Beth, flush with estrogen and optimism.

This is new Beth. Crone Beth.

Crone Beth shoots straight. She tells it like it is.

You know what I noticed after my hysterectomy? When I went through overnight menopause?

I remember there were hot flashes . . .

I had so much less patience for people’s shit. I think estrogen makes you an enabler. All those mothering hormones—you let people walk all over you. And you feel sorry for everyone. The other day, I was reading People Magazine, and it was some sob story—it’s always some sob story—and I thought, “I don’t have enough estrogen for this.”

You were reading People Magazine?

On my phone. In the News app.

Remember magazines?

Remember newspapers?

I’m part of the old world. I’m a twentieth-century woman. I’m a relic of a forgotten age.

Is this more of your speech?

Lincoln told me that he never planned on having a family. Before we started dating.

Does that mean he didn’t want kids?

No, I think it just means he never planned it.

Well, he’s not much of a planner.

I am. I had a plan. Four kids, remember? Three years apart?

I remember.

That was so stupid of me.

It wasn’t stupid.

I tempted fate.

I don’t think you actually believe in fate.

No. I believe in entropy. Which is worse.

I’m going to float a few options here . . .

They’re just ideas. You can take them or leave them—or you can keep spiraling. If I were in your position, I’d probably choose the spiral. (Who doesn’t love a good spiral?)

Option 1: You could take a pregnancy test. Just to settle that part of your mind.

Option 2: You could set this all aside for a month. This might just be a blip. You might have years of bleeding and cramping left in you.

Beth

I’m not very good at setting things aside.

Jennifer

Me neither.

I’m good at centering them.

Same.

Focusing on them until they take up my entire field of vision.

Is it “naif”?

Is what naif?

Naif/mother/crone.

Definitely no.

Lassie?

Lassie/MILF/rapping granny

We could just google this.

You know I don’t like to google. I think it’s making our brains rot. Google-assisted dementia.

The other day I was thinking . . .

We think of ourselves—of everything—as having an ideal state. Like, we mature to an ideal state, and then we decay.

What if the middle isn’t the ideal? What if every moment along the curve is ideal? Because it’s all happening the way it’s supposed to happen?

A seed isn’t any better than a piece of fruit. Maybe a rotten piece of fruit isn’t any worse. It’s supposed to rot.

We’re supposed to rot.