The Celibate Life

December 21st, 2005

I thought I was pregnant today for the second time in as many months. I still might be, though I’m not late for anything, and I won’t tell you if I am for some time. But I’m pretty sure I’m not, so put down the knitting needles. The only reason I thought so is that my own perfume made me physically ill, and last night after dinner I thought I might die from the Sickness to End all Dinner-Related Sicknesses and Miserable Neverending Sickess from Homemade Pasta Carbonara Sickness.

In truth, I think it was the eggs in the carbonara. I don’t do well with eggs, historically. And the fact that I was trying a new parfum today is likely the reason I stank myself out of the newsroom (Newsroom! I may never get over the excitement. So what if it’s a small-town paper!). And last month, I was terrifyingly late, which turned out to be a happy side effect of my thyroid medication. I hadn’t had a cycle longer than 19 days in about two years, most were closer to 15. Having one that was a whopping THIRTY TWO DAYS nearly had me shopping for maternity gear, pronto.

Fifteen days. That means I had my period 7 days on, 7 days off, approximately. Yes, it was about as miserable as it sounds.

But still. This is the first time in my life that if I got pregnant, it would be okay. Good, even. No, we’re not trying, but we’re not killing ourselves NOT trying, either. Careless, but not reckless. You don’t need the details. But I’m likely not, and in fact, it would be a near-miracle if I were. And with the Thyroid Rollercoaster, no one knows if I actually *can* yet, so let’s not go there.

Before we left Boston, I was so beyond ready to start popping them out. What’s scary is that I think the primary reason I was so keen to do so is that I wasn’t happy with my life, and having kids seemed a reasonable way to move forward with my life. It’s ugly, but I’m being honest. Now that I’m actually satisfied I’m on a happy path, I’m not so anxious to jump in and I’m not sure how I’ll know that I’m ready. I guess you just “know,” according to my hundreds of wiser friends.

And what’s also making me a little sad is that I have, alas, become boring. I’m happy. Happy is boring. I don’t like it here all that much yet, and I don’t know a soul down here except for my coworkers. But it’s really all good. I have a job that I love, a great husband and a cat who sleeps so close to me I can feel his breath on my face at night. And we’re slowly meeting people, even if they aren’t in our age range.

We will. And in the meantime, I’m hopelessly happy with what I’ve got, which makes for horrendously sappy and pathetic entertainment. However, there is hope for a painfully entertaining Christmas. We’re going to Boston for a week, which will include, but is not limited to:
- A full week at my sister’s house. She will be lovely at first, then quickly degenerate into Annoyedville and become Annoyed with the presence of Everyone in the House by Wednesday. This is always entertaining, if cruel. My nephews also provide entertainment.
- A Chanukah dinner at Adam’s cousin’s apartment in Somerville. There will be guitars, Chanukah carols and latkes. I’m really looking forward to the latkes. And Grandpa, whom I adore beyond all reason and I will spend the entire time smooching him.
- Thirty. I turn fucking thirty. This alone is enough, but my entire family will be having dinner at The Kowloon, which is the world’s most kitchy, touristy, cheesy Chinese restaurant in all of Boston. I chose it for that very purpose and I plan to drink lots and lots of drinks with umbrellas in them.

And thus concludes the Boringness that is Happiness. You deserve better. Cynicism returns over Christmas.

*The Shins

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