There is a woman I occasionally run into in the restroom of the news station at which I work. She’s in her forties, maybe even fifties. But she looks good. You know the type. Slender, impeccably dressed, tanned and toned, hair the color of butter.
I want to punch her in her perfectly made up face.
Not because she’s tanned and toned, but really, that’s reason enough, isn’t it?
But no, it’s not that. I’m five months pregnant and she’s always crowing about how magnificent, how splendid, how truly wonderful being pregnant is. I mean, you guys, being pregnant was, like, THE BEST time in her life and oh how she misses it.
She usually tells me this after I’ve just upchucked my third Lean Cuisine pizza in as many hours and am standing at the sink, staring at myself in the mirror wondering how in God’s name I’m going to make it to nine months while working full-time as an executive producer for a local television news station.
Magnificent. Splendid. Wonderful.
Right. I don’t know about you but that ain’t my experience with the whole miracle of life that’s currently taking over my life.
But wait. I’m leading you astray. Being pregnant may suck, but it’s also the best thing I’ve ever done. The hardest thing, yes, but the best thing. The first time you see that diaper encased bum crack peeking over a pair of Gymboree jeans you’ll know what I mean.
Still. If you moon around inviting folks to rub your burgeoning belly, spend time admiring your pregnancy glow and basking in the “splendid” wondrousnes of it all this ain’t the blog for you. However, if you firehose puke until you wet yourself, have thighs that suddenly rub together like two amorous pigs and crave a glass of wine like a detoxing junkie then this? This is the place for you.
Let’s do this thing.