If immaculate conceptions were run of the mill every day occcurences, I would think I fell prey to one.
What other explantion, besides pregnancy, is there for fatigue, crying for 6 days straight, lack of appetite and then being so ravenously hungry that you tell your waitress in the Dallas airport terminal, "No, I'll keep the menu. I'm not done"?
The only difference between me and my nine friends (NINE! I ticked them off on my fingers on my delayed flight from Point A to Point B) who are really and trulio pregnant, is that I am not. I am woefully not pregnant.
I say woefully, not because I want to be pregnant, but because I have no other explanation for my pregnancy-like symptoms. (Ha! Symptoms. As if pregnancy is a disease you can catch.)
But it would make sense if it was.
Have you every noticed that as soon as one friend's Facebook status changes to something along the lines of: "There's a bun in my oven!" it spreads quicker than those annoying: "If you love Jesus, repost this or you'll reserve your place in hell" pictures? One friend and then another and another, and the one you probably weren't supposed to find out via Facebook, but you did anyway...they're everywhere! Pregnant people are freaking dominating my Facebook news feed. And if they're not pregnant, their baby is fresh (I mean, fresh) out of the oven.
So maybe I have pregnancy-sympathy pains. Is that possible?
Why else would someone devour their Strawberry Fields salad and then ponder what next (what IS next?!) to order. Should it just be French fries, or maybe the hummus that's on the menu? Or fried shrimp? Ohhhh, fried shrimp. Can I just have it all?
Did I really just think that?
The girl who's trying to calculate how many carbs are in her morning oatmeal and lunch pita pocket? The girl who is in major crisis mode after gaining eight pounds, and the girl who shops at a farmer's market every other Friday? Is this even the same person?
Then you add in the crying. Folks, I cried every day starting Monday, July 2, through Saturday, July 7. That's six days straight of tears falling, and an event so momentous that I noted the dates. Why? Because I never cry that much. (Like, ever.) And because I, like you, am trying to figure out why. I could give you some details, which would make you go, "Ah, I see," but I don't want to. How does the saying go: "it's between me and the fence post"? The fence post and I are splendid friends.
And the fatigue, which is really so terrifying that the only explanation is that I have another human inside of me. Fatigue so pronounced that every day my eyelids fall and I think, "It must be 2 p.m." and I look at the clock and it surely is. On the dot. And fatigue so bothersome that when I get home, I've been known to take a two-hour nap before bed, and then sleep all night?
It will not take me pissing on a stick to tell you I am not pregnant. To assure you and my mother that there is no possible way (outside of immaculate conception) I am preggers. And if I were, I would never say "preggers" or "prego." I am not a spaghetti sauce, or anything resembling one.
The waitress just took my leftover spinach dip, and my flight is even more delayed.
Now I want ice cream.