Today I turn thirty four*.
I am a year away from that demon age. The age heralded by the media as point at which our eggs hurl themselves off the cliff of fertility like over-ambitious lemmings.
I didn't think I would be here, coming up to four years of our conception campaign with nothing to show for it other than the ability to pee on ovulation tests with an unerring accuracy, even when half asleep. By now, if things had gone to plan I would have a three year old, a one year old and the husband and I would be deciding whether three was a crowd or a brood.
I fully expected to have done all my breeding by the time I reached 35. At this rate I'll be lucky to have given birth to one child by then.
But funnily enough this birthday doesn't fill me with dread. I am not actually worried about aging.
Because I have finally reached the realisation that age is not the problem.
Not all women are created equal. Some can happily pop out children until well into their forties without any medical assistance. Others, despite being manifestly healthy, seem incapable of even starting off one little embryo, let alone seeing it through to birth. I fall into the latter camp.
And although my infertility is unexplained there are certain things that have been ruled out.
I have more eggs than Faberge** and my AMH result was deemed "exceptional" by my Doctor. Indicating I have the ovarian reserves of a woman younger than myself. Careering towards thirty five clearly has less of an impact on fertility than my uninhabitable womb. Sure, age will affect my ability to procreate at some stage in the not too distant future, but it certainly isn't the key inhibitor and hopefully, by the time it does start to have an impact on my egg reserves, I'll have finished any kind of treatment, either with or without success.
And as for the other stuff, wrinkles, grey hair ... dementia that is more of a problem for the husband who has to look at me all day, as long as I avoid mirrors I can still kid myself I'm 24. Certainly I haven't matured since then (as my disgraceful behaviour last Saturday proved).
So today I will celebrate. I've got the day off work, as has my twin sister, and we are going to go to a gallery, have a posh lunch and have a pedicure. So don't feel sorry for me today, if anyone deserves your sympathy it is the poor pedicurist.
*This post is cunningly scheduled to be published at six twenty four - the exact time of my birth.
** Actually a quick google just revealed that there were only around 60 made, so them and all the fakes as well.