Babies, Bodies, and another sign that I can't go gay

Everyone I know is pregnant. Everyone. It feels like every single one of my friends is having a baby, my best friend could be having a baby as I type this, so close is she to popping out a little baby out of her massive stomach. My other friend has just told me that his girlfriend is expecting, and frankly I didn't think he had it in him, I'm not being cute, I honestly thought that his sperm could never be bothered enough to swim anywhere near an egg, possibly because,

"It's miles away from where we live so we might just sit down for a bit and do nothing"

The rest of my friends have just had babies, or are at least 3 months gone. It's amazing and wonderful and beautiful. It is also very annoying.

I want a baby, not in a 'I'm taking a baby from the Hospital' sort of way, in a sort of 'I feel that I am ready to give up my life to care, nurture, educate, and unconditionally love, a little person' sort of way. I daydream about holding said little person and walking up and down the landing cradling them to sleep, I see myself teaching them how to read, and filling their minds with wonder of dinosaurs and space. I see updates and pictures of babies and parents all day, every day across Facebook and love seeing the joy on the faces, and I think to myself 'I would be really good at that'

And yet I am closer to actually giving birth to a baby myself than I am actually finding a girl who'll let me put my unprotected thing inside her for a few minutes to create a life, but this is not a problem. I'll just have to wait. And stay away from Hospitals for the time being.

And as I step onto the road for my first longish run of the week the joy of birth, and the pain of death, rattles around my head. My Mum has returned from a holiday to face the news that another family member has terminal cancer, this is the second time my Mum has come home from a holiday to be told this sort of horrible news. I've now instructed Mum that she is no longer allowed to go on holiday, we're running out of the older family members, and I'm not ready to get a serious illness and die just yet, I mean, I haven't even had a kid!

Death and life, life and death. The oldest man in the world* once said,

"I'm not afraid of death, we are born to die, and you should never be afraid"

Which is all very well for him, he was 106. If I get to that sort of number I'll be sticking my fingers up at death and calling him a ineffectual dicknose. But for me right now, as the age of 33 creeps towards me, death is the last thing on my mind, and the thing I want least in the world.

I turn into the first of the 2 parks I'll run around this morning and I remind myself of when, at University, I made this proclamation to my friend Christie,

"if things haven't worked out for me by the time I'm 30, I'm going to kill myself"
"what do you mean by 'worked out'?"
"well, I mean, if I'm not married, earning loads of money, and really happy, I'm going to kill myself"
"right, and you don't think that perhaps you're being a little short sighted here then? seeing as though you won't even be halfway through your life by that point? and that your life might turn in so many directions before then that it might not be how you think it will be at that age?"

I paused for a long time to consider this,

"nope, I'm just going to kill myself"

Christie took great glee to remind me of this conversation several times before, lots of time during, and a few times after my 30th birthday, although these days when she mentions it she has an air a regret in her voice, as if she was sort of hoping that I wouldn't be around to annoy her anymore.

My life isn't 'worked out' by any means, I live in rented accommodation with an Australian, I have made some career decisions that have taken me the longer route of where I want to be, and I don't have a women in my life who makes me think 'let's you and me name some babies, then go make one'

And yet in a lot of ways I've never been happier, my thirst for life and experience is overflowing, my friends are all having babies and their joy is mine, my Australian housemate doesn't sound like he's form Oz, and he's a good man, work is only work and I do more things outside of work to counter balance, and a few girls out there are willing to let me put my thing in them for a few minutes. Albeit with protection.

I round Mare St and head for the canal, I'm trying to slow my pace, mainly because I intend to build very slowly for Chicago and not tempt injury. But I can't run slow, never could, so as I enter the park I start to feel breathless, my legs lose their rhythm and my breathing follows. My pace is still good, and I feel like I could push on to another 3 miles without a thought but I know that I'm pushing too hard too soon, forcing something that isn't there yet, so I turn out of the park and back towards London Fields.

As I get into the park my mouth is gaping for air like a Hungry Hungry Hippo, and summer flies happily score direct hits into the back of my throat. As I cough, splutter, and spit I see the perfect running man come towards me. You may remember him as the guy who silently gave me counsel a few months ago in this very park, we see each other and our eyes meet, mine are weeping from the fly, cough, attack, his are serene. He looks at me, registers who I am and smiles a nod towards me, as if to say,

"you'll get it back, you're on the way, you'll get it back"

I nod back, nearly hitting a old woman and her dog, and proceed for home. I think to myself that I may have a bit of a man crush on this runner, and wonder how weird it would be if we got to chatting, and we ended up having a intense, animalistic, sexual, affair behind the lido. But, the thought of his penis anywhere near my mouth, arse, face, and body in general makes me feel very not sexy in any way at all. I quicken my pace the rest of the way home.

I get home in 40 minutes, and I ran 6 miles, and I feel good.

"you're getting it back, you're on the way, you're getting it back"