A Basket of Theories

"So I have this theory," I tell my friend over eggs and toast. Actually, she has toast. I have an English muffin. When sharing a theory, it's important to be accurate.
"I can't wait to hear it," she says.
"My theory is based on 60 years of existence on this particular planet."
"More like 60 and a half," she says.
"Right." I look down at my plate for dramatic effect. "Anyway, you know how gals are born with only a certain number of eggs? Something like, what, 200?"
"I think it's 400."
"Right. Anyway, I believe gals are also born with only a certain amount of patience."
"How much?"
"Let's say the equivalent of... 400 eggs."
"Nice."
"Which, on the surface, sounds like a lot, but over the course of a lifetime, it's not that much. At some point, that basket of patience empties out and you can't hatch anymore. Not that anyone tells you that. Your mother doesn't tell you. Your doctor doesn't tell you. No one pulls you aside and says, parcel out that patience, honey, 'cuz one day, it'll be gone and your protective shell will officially crack."
"Something tells me you've officially hit your quota."
"Of patience?"
"Egg puns."