moving those little arms, then.” March: Eat smarter. April: Stop being so critical. This is going to be tough because it’s so much easier pointing out other people’s shortcomings than it is recognizing and acknowledging your own. And so much more fun. But, sad to say, just about every negative thing I’ve said about someone eventually winds up becoming a problem I have to face. May: Volunteer! Stop being so selfish and shallow. This concept wasn’t designed solely for rich white women with nothing else to do. June: Go to church and Pray More Often! Let’s be realistic: not necessarily every single Sunday but enough so that I feel redeemed. Remember not to waste God’s time with chitchat and don’t ask for any special favors because too many folks are asking for special treatment all day long. Don’t ask for anything. But if I have to, ask for the ability to use common sense, be stronger, be more patient, compassionate, honest, and forgiving. The rest should fall into place. If not, it means I’m not paying attention. July: Exercise! Something. But break a sweat. (Hot flashes do not count! Ha!) August: Cook something new at least once a week! This is so last-year. I must’ve been out of my fucking mind. In fact, I’m thinking of taking a cooking hiatus. September: Be more sociable. I should do more things with my friends since I don’t do much with my husband. Maybe make some new friends even though I love Bunny and Paulette. Try reconnecting with a few that I liked in college who found me on the Internet but whom I have yet to e-mail back. Try not to compare. October: Write letters again! Especially to people who think I’ve forgotten them because I have. Reminisce. November: Change my hairstyle every three months. (Why did I want to do that? Oh yeah, for variety.) December: Go somewhere I never thought I’d go. Do something I never thought I’d do. (Like where? Like what?)
Did I really write all of this stuff? Was I on some kind of fucking medication around then? Nope. That’s the reason why I’m here now. Does swearing in my thoughts count the same as actually swearing out loud? A knock on the door startles me and I throw my tablet on the floor like it’s an illegal drug.
“Marilyn?”
“Yes?”
“May I come in?”
“Sure,” I say, and sit up like a board is behind my back.
“How are you these days, Marilyn?”
“So-so,” I say. “I like your new office.”
“Thanks.”
She looks good. Too good. Like she’s had work done. But to that I say, right on.
“Well, let’s see here.” She sighs, flipping through my chart, and then she just closes it.
“How far into it am I?”
“Well, that depends.”
“On what? I thought you said the blood test would show my hormone levels.”
“It does, indeed.”
“Are they high or low?”
“Well, Marilyn, I’m not sure how you’re going to feel about the numbers.”
“What does that mean?”
“Well, the levels indicate that you’re probably pregnant.”
I know I didn’t hear her right. I couldn’t possibly have heard her say the word “pregnant.”
“What did you just say?”
“This is what the tests say.”
“You can’t really be serious?”
“Well, when you told the lab that you’d missed a period, they automatically did a pregnancy test when checking hormone levels, just in case.”
“I don’t fucking believe this!”
“So I take it this isn’t good news for you then, Marilyn?”
“Preg-nant,” I blurt out just to hear myself say it. “How pregnant am I?”
“I can’t tell you that based on this test, but since your next cycle is due in”—she looks at my chart—“it says here, around the eighteenth of February—then it would be safe to put you at roughly six or seven weeks.”
“Six or seven weeks?” I whisper and realize I’ve been tapping the base of this metal exam table with the heels of both feet, which I can’t seem to stop until I place both palms on my kneecaps and press down. I take
Did I really write all of this stuff? Was I on some kind of fucking medication around then? Nope. That’s the reason why I’m here now. Does swearing in my thoughts count the same as actually swearing out loud? A knock on the door startles me and I throw my tablet on the floor like it’s an illegal drug.
“Marilyn?”
“Yes?”
“May I come in?”
“Sure,” I say, and sit up like a board is behind my back.
“How are you these days, Marilyn?”
“So-so,” I say. “I like your new office.”
“Thanks.”
She looks good. Too good. Like she’s had work done. But to that I say, right on.
“Well, let’s see here.” She sighs, flipping through my chart, and then she just closes it.
“How far into it am I?”
“Well, that depends.”
“On what? I thought you said the blood test would show my hormone levels.”
“It does, indeed.”
“Are they high or low?”
“Well, Marilyn, I’m not sure how you’re going to feel about the numbers.”
“What does that mean?”
“Well, the levels indicate that you’re probably pregnant.”
I know I didn’t hear her right. I couldn’t possibly have heard her say the word “pregnant.”
“What did you just say?”
“This is what the tests say.”
“You can’t really be serious?”
“Well, when you told the lab that you’d missed a period, they automatically did a pregnancy test when checking hormone levels, just in case.”
“I don’t fucking believe this!”
“So I take it this isn’t good news for you then, Marilyn?”
“Preg-nant,” I blurt out just to hear myself say it. “How pregnant am I?”
“I can’t tell you that based on this test, but since your next cycle is due in”—she looks at my chart—“it says here, around the eighteenth of February—then it would be safe to put you at roughly six or seven weeks.”
“Six or seven weeks?” I whisper and realize I’ve been tapping the base of this metal exam table with the heels of both feet, which I can’t seem to stop until I place both palms on my kneecaps and press down. I take
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