Maybe Baby

I am two days late. I've taken five pregnancy tests, and they have all been negative. But I refuse to believe it. I did buy the cheapie Rite Aid brand, after all. But this last month is my first foray into pregnancy tests. Alex nags be that "you get what you pay for," but I've always been a stingy bitch, even when it comes to my reproductive health. Those really nice Tampax Silk tampons? I love them. They glide in, no mess (TMI). But still, I buy the house brand at Target, and then am disappointed every time. They just don't have the same silky feel.

I didn't start having sex until I was 21 (you'd be proud, Mom). It wasn't as though I was a celibate nun, I was just more of an "everything but" kind of girl. I like to think I was pretty good at hand jobs in high school (are those still en vogue?), and honed my BJ skills as a drunken sorority girl (sorry, Mom). And even though I wasn't exactly guarding my flower, I wasn't ready for the read deal. And then there was Matty. He took my virginity, as well as a handful of other Logger gals. Maybe he went for the virgins because he was oh-so-bad in the sack. And even with my lack of experience with technical fornication, I knew he sucked. First of all, it was like a dog humping my leg. Not a big, real dog, like a chocolate lab or german shepherd, but more like a bull terrier or even a chihuahua. And he came in, like, two seconds. Then he got up, headed to the bathroom, and tossed me a hand towel to clean up the cum he left all over my stomach. Did I mention we "forgot" to use a condom?

This was back before Plan B pills were like Tums, and I had to go to an actual pharmacy and talk directly to the pharmacist and show my ID to get the morning-after pill. I was a bit traumatized about the sitch. And henceforth promised myself to ALWAYS use protection. Which I have since abided by, more or less.

Fast forward about three years, to my only other "pregnancy scare." I'm living in a ski town, working as a waitress in a sports bar, and in-between boyfriends (both figuratively and literally). I am having some serious menstrual cramps that aren't responding to the Advil/Tylenol mix, and not even to my save-for-a-rainy-day Vicodin. I ask to leave work early and go visit my BFF who works at the only medical center in town. Stac tells me to see one of the doctors, just in case.

I'm sitting on a bed in one of the rooms, with the hygenic paper crinkling loudly under my butt as I fidget around. I'm waiting for Dr. L to come back in and hopefully give me some stronger meds. I mean, I know I'm not dying or anything, but I am doubled over in pain.

Dr. L barges back into the room and announces, with no hint of compassion or surprise, "You're pregnant. I'm afraid you might be having an ektopic pregnancy so I want you to go to Montrose Hospital for further tests."

Fuck. Me.

On second thought, No, don't. That's what got me here in the first place.

My mind is racing: "How could I possibly be pregnant? ... I'm so diligent about using condoms (most of the time), and especially now that I'm cheating on my sort-of boyfriend! ... Shit. Ryan or Brock? ... SHIT! Or Chris? ... Do I have to tell them? ... Seriously, I'm 23 and pregnant? ... I am NOT the kind of girl who belongs on an MTV documentary television program ... I mean, I'm no angel ... I've been sort of sleeping around ... Some might even call me a slut ... I say I'm a progressive and liberated 21st-century woman ... And I think I'm falling in love with Ryan ... Should I call my brother? Or my dad? Fuck. How'd I get myself into this!?! I always use a condom ..."

Stac clocks out at work and drives me the 60 miles to Montrose. They check me in to the ER, dress me in a cold hospital gown and plug me in to a bunch of different machines to run tests. Something like four hours pass, although it feels like four days. A EKG tech or somebody walks over to me laying in the hospital bed. His eyebrows are furrowed and he looks a bit confused.

"There was something curious about your _______ count."

(I don't actually know what he said, but it had to do with my blood).

"Sooooo, the results came back negative. You're actually not having an ektopic pregnancy. You're actually not pregnant at all. I guess that first urine test was a false positive."

Seriously?!? Did this SERIOUSLY just happen to me? My family teases me about being a hypochondriac, which I think is totally unfair anyway, but THE DOCTOR TOLD ME I WAS PREGNANT! This was not drama I invited into my life as a fun way to pass the time and toy around with the (too many) men in my life.

I mean, this is GREAT news, but seriously? I don't even know what to say. How is it, that yet again, I constitute the .001% chance of something happening. It's not hypochondriacal or paranoid if it's really happened, you know.

Whatever. I'm not pregnant!!! I don't have to deal with whatever real-life, adult responsibilities come with decisions about pregnancy!!! There is no alien life growing inside my belly, either in my uterus or outside of it!!!

I need a drink. I am not pregnant. Thank god.

Flash forward back to the present time. The only "pregnancy scare here" is me scaring away pregnancy. My womb is not be a hospitable place. I am not pregnant. And this time I'm disappointed. At 29 and married instead of 23 and whoring around, I double-up on prenatal vitamins instead of vodka.