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September 25, 2009 / Brittany Hendrick

Is this my mother’s way of saying she’s proud of me?

Since I live in the suburbs and rarely get together with my city friends since that trivial time I lost my job, because I’m a cheap bastard, no one may have noticed that I’ve been in New York City for the past three weeks.

I’ll get into the reasons why I ended up here, later. For now, let it be known that I’ve been looking for a job in NY. Therefore, I haven’t been in much of a creative writing mode, as I’m focused on finding substantial employment.

The Hatchery I currently go to has a cut-off age of 31. That means, come November, my egg donation days are over, as I’ll be 31 and “suddenly” my body “knows” I’m “too old.” In fact, I’ll go ahead and say I am retired– they aren’t putting anymore into the egg bank the rest of the year, and there are no potential matches for me. Unless something pops up between now and November, I’m done. It makes me a little sad, because I genuinely enjoy doing it.

However, through my job searches, I’ve found that there are places in NY state that allow you to donate up to age 32. I love my Hatchery so much, it’d be hard for me to trust anyone else. So I asked them about the reputations of a couple places in Manhattan. The head doctor says NYU has a reputable program with a high success rate, so that’s who I’m going with.

I want to at least get through all the administrative bullshit while I’m here– paperwork, bloodwork, genetics workup, psych workup– and get in the system, soon. When there is a match, I can always fly back to NY, because I have a place to stay.

Part of this process is submitting a copy of my Social Security card and a childhood photo of myself. I gave my mom the task of scanning the items and emailing them to me. She did this today. Unfortunately, the photo didn’t turn out and will require a Take Two.

But that’s not all. There was something extra attached… I have no idea what in the hellfire my mom was doing, or why this appeared in my email, but her entire email said this in the body:

Add “cankles” to the list of body parts women are supposed to worry about. We found more on this “flaw,” why some people — mostly women — are so worried about it and what can be done about them.

What are they? “Cankles” is a combination of the words “calf” and “ankles.” If you can’t tell where your calf stops and your ankle starts, you may have cankles. 

Where did it start? No one knows exactly who first uttered the term “cankles,” but the subject came up in a well-known episode of “Friends” back in 1995. 

The natural remedy: Some fitness experts say certain workouts can help. This gym dedicated a whole month to them.

Under the knife: Some women choose plastic surgery. 

Stylish solution: Maybe the easiest way to get rid of cankles — or at least the appearance of them — is to dress around them.

Guys can have them, too: The term “mankles” was used to describe “man cankles” in a 2007 episode of “Weeds.” 

Not to be confused with: The Lithuanian stringed instrument known as the kankle. 

Umm…

Why is my mom searching cankles???

My sister and I just educated her on what cankles are, like, last month. I didn’t think it’d require further investigation. I guess she didn’t believe us. Furthermore, you’d be surprised at how many MEN don’t even know what cankles are; this is fact, because I ask… and they have no clue. None! How can guys not even notice?? It’s the same way men don’t notice a woman who dresses badly or wears too much make-up (among a host of other things, but I don’t have time to list them all). Clueless.

It’s especially funny that my mom put this in the email to me– I don’t have cankles. Mom knows that, too. NO ONE in my family has cankles. Not even my cousins. Call it a genetic triumph. It should be listed on the Hatchery’s questionnaire, under the “Muscular/Bones/Joints” section:

Cankles? Yes  No

Thanks, mom, for reminding me that I have nice legs and am, therefore, a suitable selection at The Hatchery. One less thing prospective parents have to worry about. I’ll be sure to make note of that on my paperwork.

I’m not saying I’m a physically perfect human being. But, boy, I sure do appreciate  my broke-ass, bent, deviated-septumed nose.

Let’s celebrate. Strike up the kankles!

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