I used my first pregnancy test ever yesterday. Today I turn thirty-two, so really you could say I’ve had a good run—never before having reason to unwrap the dip stick. Am I trying to get pregnant, you ask? No. But this weekend I visited my acupuncturist who after listening to my symptoms—fatigue, nausea, listlessness—asked me if I was pregnant. Hmmm? Come to mention it, the huz and I did have a little “accident” this month. And when again is my period due? Shit, I never can remember. My inability to track my own periods is a running joke with the girls and the husband. It’s a wonder I can ever remember to pay a bill and a GD miracle that I married a man who loves spreadsheets.
Anyways, as I went to fix my boss some lunch yesterday and became instantly nauseous at the smell of his morning fry pan, it occurred to me that the ball might have dropped. And then, of course, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Was I pregnant? Would I be happy to be pregnant? Miserable? I needed to know.
Of course once you start thinking about babies they are suddenly freakin everywhere. After four more anxiety-riddled hours at work I hoofed it past the Baby Gap advertisements on Hollywood Boulevard and descended into the subway (yes, there is a subway system in LA) only to be greeted by a Latino couple carting two tots and a screaming infant. If they can do it, I can, I thought and we all crowded into the car and headed on down the rails to the shrill pitch of the wee one. I opened up Secret Diary of a Call Girl to distract myself with how kind-of-awesome Belle de Jour makes it sound to be a high-class whore but it wasn’t really working out for me and somehow baby, baby, baby usurped blow job, blow job, blow job. I disembarked at Seventh and Metro, dodged a stroller, and made my way into Walgreens, boasting a picture of a gurgling bebé with the caption “all the nutrition your baby needs.” Coincidence? Omen? Fuck me. Ten dollars, a pimply cashier’s loud inquiry: “YOU NEED A BAG FOR THIS, MAM?” and five minutes in the gym restroom later, I had a negative. Relieved, with the slightest tinge of disappointment, I refocused with a rigorous hour of downward dog.
Later, I told hubby about my panic and we popped a bottle of bubbly to celebrate my non-pregnancy. Sorry if I worried you there for a sec, Mum, I know—we’re still too broke for babies. Low and behold, today’s thirty-second birthday present is a definitive visit from aunt flow.