Friday, November 16, 2007

So, I am awesome.

I shall explain why.

I go to the gym before work. This means that I pack all my clothes the night before, as doing so at 4 am would lead to some rather unhappy fashion choices.
Last night, while packing my bag, I threw in one of the three pairs of pants I can still wear, a shirt I am just barely fitting into, a horribly uncomfortable pair of panties (seriously, Hanes. Some women have this thing called an “ass.” Please accommodate some booty without the front panel bunching and bulging. Thanks!), and just grabbed a bra off the top of the pile.

I got the gym this morning, worked out, had a shower and was getting dressed when I realized the bra I had packed? Hasn’t fit since before I got pregnant. It’s a full cup size and probably two band sizes too small. And the shirt I’d brought is very thin, therefore going without was not an option. So, I did my best to cram into the bra. I’m going to have welts all over my chest by the time I get home. Why do I even keep old, non-fitting clothing?

Of course, because I’m me, I don’t just keep my own retardedness to myself. I called Xtian as soon as I got to work to tell him how dumb I was. He made some sympathetic sounds and then said, “Why didn’t you just drive home and change before going to work?”

Um, because that would have made sense? Jebus. Now I’m doubly retarded, as the thought never even occurred to me. What is UP, college education? I’m pretty sure my uppity university would be demanding my degree back if they were made aware of this situation.

MC keeps teasing me with contractions. For the last handful of days, I’ve had some nasty, painful, back pain inducing contractions, usually a handful of minutes apart. Last night, in the car, I was having some really horrid pain that I could barely breathe through. I’ve not let myself believe that it was going anywhere, but start timing them, just in case.

And without fail, every night, they peter out on their own. Look here, kid. I’m tired. I’m ready to be done with pregnancy. I understand that means I’ll have to endure labor and delivery, neither of which sound pleasant, but it’s the price we pay to increase the number of cute children in the world. And I’m ok with it.

What I am NOT ok with are these continuous fake outs. Screaming pain is not something I’d choose to endure for fun. So, bring the pain, but get on the stick and be born already. Or, conversely, let me remain pain free until you are ready to be born.

I guess what I’m saying is, shit, or get off the pot. Commit, already!

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