OK, so, I hadn’t thought about my definition of a secret until the other night.
And once I told him about it, Nick thought of it as a secret kept. Whereas I thought, since I hadn’t made the other decision – which would definitely have been a secret – that it wasn’t a secret. Just something I hadn’t shared.
Which is entirely different, I think. Kind of like if you have the opportunity to cheat on your partner, but you choose not to. Cheating and not telling would mean you have a secret.
Whereas you probably wouldn’t come home and say, “I didn’t sleep with someone else today.”
Unless it was oh, Daniel Craig. Then I think I would definitely come home and say that while I’d had the opportunity to have sex with James Bond, I didn’t, and THAT’S HOW MUCH I LOVE YOU. YOU’RE WELCOME.
Except, sweet Jesus, how would you NOT sleep with Daniel Craig? So then you'd have to keep that secret to your grave. Except I'm a terrible secret keeper, so I'd just have to hope my marriage survived it.
Note to self: create one of those five celebrities you get a free pass with kind of list. Which is actually hilarious, because I think Barney Frank is the only famous person I've seen in years.
But anyway. Not having slept with the person isn’t a secret. You agree?
And this is nothing as juicy as all that.
Basically, here’s the deal. We were having this big contentious conversation the other night and I said, “There’s something I haven’t told you.” (Which is so not the same as a secret.) So he said, “Yeah, well, there’s something I haven’t told you, either.”
He made me go first.
Back when we were doing the IVF that led to my present state, Nick came with me when they sucked the eggs out. He kind of had to be there, really. Remember the whole Whorientals business? Plus the fact that I was seriously doped up.
But when they stuck them back in, I walked myself down there, and then cabbed home. It was kind of surreal. The doctor and I talked about Mardi Gras while he was injecting my potential future progeny into my uterus.
Nick really had no role that day. I mean, aside from potential moral support. Which is of course nice but not absolutely critical.
So when I was sitting under an electric blanket in the reclining chair drinking water to the point where they were satisfied that my bladder would be full enough to push my uterus into optimal position, they handed me some forms to fill out.
One of which was to tell them whether or not to freeze any leftover embryos. And who got what rights. I can’t remember exactly, but you chose the rights for each partner (basically: donate, use, discard). You checked different options, depending on the person.
Naturally, I gave myself free reign to do whatever I wanted, without a second thought.
And then, then I got to Nick. And paused. I know, I know, this sounds terrible. How could I even hesitate, right?
Except, think about it. If he’s making these decisions, it’s because I’m dead and he’s married some dreadful chippie. And I was all, I am so NOT giving Nick and the chippie full reign to use my eggs! HE just had to wank into a cup. I had to do days of shots in the stomach and egg-sucking-outing and all the rest of it.
And suddenly, there he was, bringing some overly made up tramp into our home, acting all like he could just walk over to the freezer all breezy and pull out those embryos and use them anytime he wanted? No sirree!
I sat in that warm chair and stewed about the chippie for a couple minutes. And then I remembered that chippies are, by definition, young, and she wouldn’t need my eggs.
Plus then, then I thought, but what if he marries someone totally age appropriate? Someone like me, against whom time and ovaries are working? She might be a perfectly nice person, someone I’d like, a good mother for Jordan. And they could totally use these expensive, hard-squozen embryos.
So I gave him every right to them.
See how it wasn’t a secret?
Also, he was totally lying. He didn’t even have a secret/non-secret.