I cried my head off yesterday. And I balled my eyes out. I wish you could literally do that. You could carry your detached head in one hand and your eyes in the other. Preferably in a fashionable glass case. When people saw you they’d think, “Wow, she’s going through something big and important.” Then they’d be really nice to you and give you free stuff like massages and J Crew gift cards.
After a week of experiencing what I was convinced were pregnancy symptoms, but turned out to just be a cold, the tell-tale signs arrived. First the spotting, then the cramping, then the wanting to tear someone’s head off.
Since Halloween was shaping up to be a bloody one, I decided to forego my original plan of passing out candy and take a yoga class instead. I wasn’t feeling strong enough to face a barrage of adorably pudgy toddlers dressed as ladybugs and mini slutty French maids. Yoga would be a safe haven. A place where I could hide and lick my wounds- downward doggy style.
Unfortunately this particular yoga instructor had a habit of starting way too many sentences with “this pose is one I just taught in my pre-natal class blah blah blah.” I didn’t hear the rest because I was too busy screaming in my own brain, “Please stop reminding me that there are rooms full of women growing babies in their bellies and stretching!”
At one point she actually said, “I guess we don’t need to use the blocks for this pose since none of you are pregnant.”
I think there should be some kind of caveat on murder. If you are struggling with fertility and have major PMS- which is a double whammy, you should not be held responsible if your hands find themselves wrapped around someone’s neck.
But despite my totally justified rage, I decided to let her live.
After yoga, I killed another 45 minutes at the grocery store just to ensure I’d miss the grubby handed candy grabbers. But when I turned on my block, the streets were still thick with thieves, (and pirates, and Harry Potter characters, and a few teen girls I wished would put some pants on) so I made a mad dash inside my house, turned off every light and proceeded to read Entertainment Weekly in the bathtub. The bathtub is my go- to therapy. Well, when my therapist isn’t available. If my therapist conducted our sessions in my bathtub that would be the best. And I could smoke as many cigarettes as I want. This would be my ultimate fantasy. But since I am not allowed to smoke anymore and there are likely some ethical issues with bathtub therapy, I have to take what I can get.
After soaking until the tub went cold and my fingers were appropriately pruned, I retired to bed for more pouting and magazine reading. My husband came home and said brightly, “Hey sexy, how was your day?”
I wanted to say, “It was pretty okay, I got some work done on my screenplay.”
But instead what came out was a sob followed by, “I can’t really do this right now!”
I cried really hard and for a long time. And he just held me. He didn’t say stupid things or tell me not to be sad. He just held me and told me I was beautiful.
Let me tell you, when I cry, I am NOT beautiful. My face crumples and looks like it's folding in on itself. Think the Cryptkeeper on a bad day. Giant globs of snot pour from my nose, I make loud yelping sounds, and my eyes simultaneously swell and age by ten years. There is nothing delicate about it.
But my sweet new husband poured me a tiny sip of wine and we toasted to “being sad.”
How can I be sad when my partner in life is such a wonderful person? Two years ago today was our very first date. Neither one of us could know during that flirty wine filled afternoon that we'd be going through this. But while we may navigate it awkwardly at times, we’ve found a way to be kind, loving, and compassionate to each other through an incredibly stressful experience. Of course I wouldn't choose this ordeal, but since I'm in it, I couldn’t have chosen a better man to share it with.
Happy Anniversary My Love…
(Also, I’m not just writing nice things about you so we can get a dog. But we totally should!)