Your lecturer is not in control of this situation

There are two events that send my delicately balanced work schedule into the realms of chaos.

The first is a deadline. The end of the semester is an excellent choice but an upcoming conference also makes a great substitute if the date isn't working with you. 

The second is a brand new seminar. Preparing slides to lecture on a new topic (that is, one for which it's not possible to cannibalise previous talks) is immensely time consuming. An unkind person might suggest here that I tend towards perfectionism, but I rebuke this by pointing out pictures take on a whole new level of importance when your audience is pretending really hard not to speak English. 

Also, I have an artistic vision and you're not allowed to mess with that, yo!

It is also a sad fact that people take pleasure, nay DELIGHT, in combining these events into one large chaos bomb. 

[Note to self: must remind my students that their extended essay is due three days before their final exam.]

Such it was that the world found me awake at 2 am on the last day of my 33rd lap around the sun, putting together the last of my slides for that morning's seminar. The semester end loomed large at the end of the month which meant it was a golden moment for someone to suggest a guest lecture would be perfection in a 90 minute time slot. 

But, not to worry!  The slides were now drawn and all that was left to do was sort their order and animation flow. I went to bed.

For some entirely unexpected reason, getting up the next morning was a struggle. I was supposed to be in my Japanese class by 8:45 am, but with the homework undone, the test unrevised and my slides still requiring final touches, I took a management decision to cut my losses. And the class.

Even with this guilty concession, I found myself running late for the seminar. I sprinted across campus, tumbled into the lecture room and wished I'd had the foresight to tuck a bottle of water in my bag. 

Two minutes later, I would have switched the bottle of water for remembering my laptop's power supply. 

I had a spare plug in my office, but that was on the 9th floor of the building, whereas the seminar room was on the 4th. With a single elevator servicing all 11 floors, such excursions had to be carefully timetabled events.

But, not to worry!  My battery was fully charged and would probably last through a presentation. Probably.

My first slide flashed up on the screen and I attempted to look like someone who had their life in order. I began to describe the use of computer simulations in astrophysics, relieved that my slides at least looked the part, even if the speaker looked as if she had a hedge as a close cousin. 

I was on slide 3 when the next thought struck me:

My period had started. 

But … not … to … worry… I focussed on the talk while I tried to plot a course of action.

"There are three main groups of astrophysicists: observers, instrument builders and theorists."
Could I apologise and run to the bathroom? No… I've not got any sanitary pads in my bag…

"One of the problems observers face is they can only see the Universe from one position; the Earth."
Maybe I could run upstairs to my office? No, it would take too long and I don't remember if I have anything there either….

"In reality, we cannot turn-off different physics. But in simulations, physics is like a giant toy box."
Definitely no time to go to the campus store… I'm wearing black trousers... that'll have to do.

This was the scientific equivalent of the thespian phrase: 'The show must go on'. And on it did go while I silently admitted the irony of such a pubescent mistake occurring the day before my 33rd birthday. To anyone who has had 'Young at Heart ' on replay around their birthdays, remember an eternally youthful mind comes at a price.

The seminar ended. Everyone applauded. I answered questions, calmly took my leave and … sprinted back to my apartment to throw myself, work bag and the cat who had appeared under my feet, into the bathroom. 

"Why don't YOU get periods?" I demanded to the yellow-green eyes staring up at me.

"Meow."
You've gone mad. Will this affect my food supply?  

Freshly clothed (the damage had been mercifully minimal but the day required a new front), I returned to campus and met with my graduate student. Cool, calm and collected; that's me.

"So, what mass are you finding for the star forming clouds?"

Adulthood: Same mistakes. More practised cover-up. 

Child-free? Let me demonstrate how that's done

When I was 13, I declared long and loud that I didn’t want children.

Everyone told me I’d change my mind. 

It perhaps didn’t help that I was also passionately in favour of being a countryside vet while having a deep aversion to dirt. And biology. 

Twenty years later and my protests are a lot less fervent. This is entirely due to the realisation that --should I unexpectedly end up burping a semi-swaddled infant while attempting the dangerous task of breakfast-- I will have enough problems without also eating my words. However, when I mention in my new calm monotonal voice that motherhood is perhaps not for me, it might be time to take me more seriously. The body clock is ticking loudly and I’ve slammed it on vibrate. 

Don't get me wrong, it is not that I don't understand why you want to have children.

No, wait. It is EXACTLY that I don't understand why you want to have children.

For the first eighteen years of my life, I battled against all the outrageous restrictions my parents placed on me:

No, a five year old cannot drive daddy’s car.

No, chocolate pudding is not a suitable breakfast item.

No, we are not putting a huge swing-set in the garden.

No, you cannot go into the city with your friends at ten years old.

No, you cannot go to the skating rink every night during the school week. 

No, twelve year olds cannot get part-time jobs as a lifeguard, even if you can swim. 

Until finally I was at university and free! I was able to take spontaneous cross-country trips, buy impractically designed sweatshirts if I liked the colour, go to midnight premiers of the Harry Potter movies, eat fish n’ chips on the beach because I’d drank to much alcohol to drive for at least another two hours, go to bed whenever I felt like it, purchase TWO milkshakes if I could not decide on a single flavour, seriously contemplate turning my entire apartment into a giant ball pen and still fall into the 'mature and sensible' adult-daughter category when I called home. 

In short, being an adult rocked. 

Yet, if I were to have a baby at the age my mother had me, I'd only be enjoying this hard earned freedom for about ten years. 

With a small child, I would feel obliged to be the carer and responsible role model required to give my off-spring the same advantages in life that my parents had bestowed on me. I would plan my day to ensure I could come home from work at an good hour, holidays would be booked a year in advance to negotiate school dates and a night-out with friends would be limited by how long I felt able to impose on the babysitter.

Eighteen years wait for ten years of fun? Who would want to invest in such a scheme? I'm really glad many of you do for the sake of the human race, but your choice is completely illogical and you should be banned from all Star Trek premieres. 

I want to see the world. Maybe all of it. The main attraction of a career in academia was the chance to work abroad. From the UK, I moved to New York City and from there to Florida. I spent three months in Melbourne and four months in Tokyo. I lived for two years in Canada and I've just taken up a faculty position in northern Japan. I wake up in the morning and I'm excited to be where I am and even more excited by where I might be next year. 

If you want me to give all that up, you are going to have to make a really hard sell.

Currently, I'm seeing sleepless nights, mercilessly little time to yourself, more bodily fluids than should be on any one garment and difficulties with moving location that often results in career changes. 

I don't doubt that children more than make up for all the hardships for people who want to be parents...

... but you have to be pretty keen!

Will I regret it when I'm 50? It is possible. Yet, I suspect I would regret more not pursuing the dreams I have rather than conforming to the dreams others felt I ought to have. 

So as I get up in the morning and and enter the kitchen, do I lay out for myself a large pot of chocolatey sugar-packed goodness? Absolutely not! My parents brought me up eat sensibly.

... but you know, I could…