Tra la la la la. There I was, minding my own business, going through my normal life. Getting up in the morning, brushing my teeth, getting dressed, eating breakfast, going to work, working all day, coming home, having dinner, watching TV, going to bed. For like… years. Tra la la la la. Nothing much has changed. Now I get out of bed, take my temperature, go to the bathroom to check my underwear for signs of intelligent life, take a pregnancy test, take some pills, have sex with my husband because it’s number 6 on the list, lie in bed afterwards with my legs in the air because I’ve seen that on TV, take a pregnancy test, take 12 vitamins because a nutritionist told me to, eat avocados because her receptionist told me to on my way out, take a pregnancy test, go to work because Honey, feelin’ sorry for myself don’t pay the Progesterone. Then…
I spend the day pretending my mind’s on my work and playing emotional dodge ball with my yenta coworkers. They toss idiotically personal questions at me about why I’ve been leaving early a lot lately and I hurl back: “I have not been leaving early a lot lately!” because I don’t know what else to say. Then… I leave early and go to my doctor’s appointment.
There I give blood, leave that room with a cotton ball stuck to the crook of my arm with adhesive tape, take off everything but my socks and my cotton ball and put on an open-in-the-back paper gown that only Kim Kardashian or J. Lo. would be dressed-to-impress in. Then… I lie on an examination table in a giant “M” shape, let the doctor tickle my cervix with her wedding ring as she apologizes for her hand being cold. (like my cervix knows the difference), leave the doctor’s office with a bill so big I might wear it as a costume next Halloween, go to the fertility acupuncturist, go to the fertility yoga class, go to the fertility meditation class, go to the fertility hypnotist, go to the fertility tarot reader- I have no clue why, (maybe the hypnotist gets a kick-back and sent me there subliminally), go to the fertility car dealership. (He has eight kids. He must know something.) Go home. Take a pregnancy test. Take a pill. Eat what’s been my favorite dinner since never: Tofu, asparagus, and lemons while my husband feasts on mango, almonds and garlic. Then we have sex because it’s number 42 on the list. I lie in bed with my legs in the air afterwards because I’ve seen that on TV.
While I’m lying there, I read People magazine with one eye open and my fingers scissored in front of my face looking nothing like Uma Thurman, so I can peek through my hand and filter out any articles with sentences starting with: “Preg…”, “Bab…”, “Twi…”, “Tripl…”, or “Chil…” I’m always done with the entire magazine way before my twenty minute leg hoist is up. (Although in my haste, I once almost missed a really nice story about Baby Face and Twisted Sister doing a concert in Chile.) Then…
I take a pregnancy test. Give myself a subcutaneous stomach needle jab and turn on the TV:
Real Housewives of Anywhere… One is pregnant. They all have kids. Next!
Chopped… Excellent. This guy’s making risotto. Idiot. Everyone knows you can’t make risotto in twenty minutes. Great: He’s dedicating his risotto to his kids and so now of course he has to turn to the camera and tell us all about them. Neeext!
The Golden Girls. Score! It’s the perfect show: None of them’s been pregnant since the Watergate scandal and they don’t allow children in their sub-division.
So I Start Asking: Will My Life Ever Be Right Side Up Again?