At around 11:30, I am full of incredibly productive ideas. Things are looking up. There are only three more periods before I get to go home for the day and get started on re-arranging my bedroom, making Aloo Keema for dinner before the cilantro wilts pathetically in the fridge and Rich yells at me for the umpteenth time not to purchase herbs in bulk just because “they smell nice and green” and finally sit down at the designated “work desk” to pay the bills that were due, um, yesterday. I feel lighter, more optimistic, more beautiful knowing that I have a whole day ahead of me to decide what to do. But, something absurd happens when I walk through the back door of my little house that impedes all former, ethereal visions of stirring steamy pots and tackling mountains of paperwork in between getting a pedicure and buying a new perfume. I plop down on the couch, ask Rich to help me pull the boots off of my massive feet and retire all grandiose ideas that sounded completely plausible only three hours prior. I explain to my tired, aching body that my bedroom can wait until tomorrow. That I’ve never been late on a cingular bill before, one more day is not going to kill me- besides, the work desk is all the way up the stairs and I’m not ready to tackle that kind of physicality. And then, I do the unthinkable.
I put aside the idea of getting a pedicure to at least add some color to these canoes, shove aside Dr. B’s voice encouraging me to try and cook at home as much as possible in order to curb my carb intake and order chinese food while watching The Barefoot Contessa make truffled macaroni and cheese.
It’s at this very moment that I feel about as sexy as John Goodman.
Dearest Ellie, Mama wants you to be perfect and developed and healthy- and please, the very moment that that happens, execute your exit strategy as quickly as possible. This pregnancy exhaustion has got to go.