The wall. When I was a volunteer with Americorps my teammates and I were forced to participate in some hokey team-building activities at an off-season summer camp in the middle of New Hampshire. One of the exercises required us to help each other up a 9-foot wall using nothing more than our arms and legs. Now, I have never been a small woman and I also happen to be a tad fearful of heights that aren't enclosed, so attempting to scramble up a completely vertical wall while people I'd known for a month or two were pushing on my butt and yanking on my arms was not my idea of a good time. After five minutes of listening to my teammates grunt and groan and me falling to the ground several times, I threw up my arms in frustration and called it quits. I did not give a shit about getting to the top of that wall. Fast forward more than ten years to last night when I ran into a wall even bigger than the one that defeated me on the other side of the country. My husband and I found out a few months ago that, after more than a year of trying to get knocked up, I would never be able to conceive naturally because my Fallopian tubes were scarred beyond repair and would have to be removed. That meant our only hope of having a baby biologically was via IVF. We're about a week away from egg retrieval, which means I have been shooting a variety of hormones into my belly for over a week now, as well as getting ultrasounds and blood draws done frequently. Last night I hit the IVF wall and, boy, did it hurt. The thought of intentionally jabbing a needle into my belly fat for several more days is practically paralyzing and the hormones make me want to lay in bed all day feeling sorry for myself and stuffing pastries into my gaping maw. Several tear-stained and snot-filled tissues from last night's pity party are in the garbage can next to my bed and I imagine there will be more joining them after tonight's fiesta. All in all, it's been a magnificent last twelve hours. So, what does this all have to do with you, Jason? Well, in some circles you're known as a pretty hilarious guy, and if we were friends I'm sure I could count on you to call me up and regale me with ludicrous tales from your Hollywood life, which would distract me from all those needles, medications, bills, and the fact that the lovely folks at the fertility clinic are more familiar with my cootch than my dear husband. You could help me over that wall, Mr. Segel, and put a smile on my face while doing so. And if you ever find yourself standing in front of a wall that's a little too tall for you to climb, I'd be right there, pushing on your butt and cheering you on.
