So, I think I might be pregnant. “What?!” you say, having endured my tireless rampades about all the reasons I never want to have children. “How can this be?”
Well, accidents happen and sometimes in the early morning haze of getting off to work I forget to take that little pill and sometimes that happens three days in a row and then I just take them all at once and man, for being so small, you’d be amazed at how nauseated you can get from just three little pills all at once.
But I digress. I’m here to talk about the possible papoose in the oven, not how it got here. After all, my mother and my brother read this. They don’t need to know what happens between the brilliant husband and me occasionally.
I’ll admit, I’m not exhibiting the classic signs of pregnancy such as emotional lability, breast tenderness or missed periods. I do however, have an absolutely overwhelming craving for bacon. I don’t mean a passing thought like, “Hmm, bacon sounds good.” I mean that I am obsessed with bacon. I dream about it. I lust after it.
I am one of those people that can have food obsessions, but this is different. Usually I can have a serving of said food, such as cheesecake or macaroni and cheese or bok choi and then move one. Not working this time. Last week while on vacation I allowed myself bacon every single morning. (Before I hear from the American Heart Association about how daily bacon consumption is causing my arteries to occlude as we speak and that I should just check in downstairs for an angioplasty right now, I would like to clarify that I only had one piece each day. A small piece. And I picked it apart, so that I only ate the meaty part and peeled off that center fatty part. So there, I indulged but I didn’t overdo it. Are you happy now, AHA? Can you rest contentedly, knowing that you’ve stolen my the one thing that might have possibly brought me joy? Thanks for your concern, now I can trade in my Lipitor for some Lexapro.) Despite the attempt to quell the bacon appetite, it simply grows and grows. Even now, as I write this, a chant is building in the back of my brain. The most primal recesses are building a mantra, a swelling tide of demand. “Bacon. Bacon. Bacon. BACON. BACON! BACON!!! BACONBACONBACON!!!”
This fixation is strong that I can only attribute it to an alien force inside me. And since I don’t believe in aliens, at least not the kind that live inside me, I have thus concluded that I must be prego.
It’s the fine deductive reasoning like this that got me where I am today.