You guys may remember when I wrote a few weeks ago about how I quit smoking. If you don’t remember, let me quickly sum it up for you:
I quit smoking. People got hurt. Property got destroyed. At one point, the National Guard was called in to shoot me down off of a skyscraper. The end.
And I am happy to report that not only am I still 100 percent cigarette-free today, but the casualties list has significantly shortened thanks to my nicotine cravings finally dying down. In fact, my husband hasn’t had a frying pan or the complete works of Shakespeare hurled at him in eight days, a personal best since I started this journey.
And that’s not all that is new. I’ve actually been on a bit of a health kick lately. For instance, I hardly drink soda anymore. My coffee consumption, which was dangerously close to reaching “unemployed writer hanging out at Starbucks” proportions, has been reduced by 90 percent. I no longer eat hot dogs or other meats that I can’t readily identify what animal it came from. Believe it or not, I also haven’t had a drop of alcohol in months (which, alas, also resulted in some casualties…but don’t worry, the vet said our dog only suffered psychological trauma and physically is fine). And I’m trying to eat at least one vegetable a day as opposed to my usual one vegetable a month when my husband tries to sneak mushrooms into his homemade calzones (oh yeah, I can taste them, babe, and they taste mushy and disgusting).
And let me tell you, after all that, I have never felt worse. Oh yeah, you read that right. All that crap about how important it is to be healthy? Highly overrated. Those granola-eating hippies are all liars. Because for 20 years my body ran just fine on all those toxic ingredients. In fact, it thrived on booze and non-organic pizza rolls. And then I took all that stuff away and suddenly I’m curled up in the fetal position at the base of the toilet for months.
Then again, it could be because I’m pregnant. (Ha! See what I did there? Buried the lede for purely comical effect! Cruel writer shenanigans!).
Yes, dear readers, yours truly is with child. Preggo. Knocked up. In the family way. Bun in the oven. Uterus status: Occupied.
Or at least, I’m pretty sure I am. I have to be honest, it feels more like a very small demon wizard has taken over my body. But my doctor keeps reassuring me that this is highly unlikely despite the fact this pregnancy feels more like the movie “The Exorcist” than any kind of blessed event. Seriously, if you could see the things coming out of my body, you’d be wondering too. Not to mention, the violent mood swings (the weather makes me angry, that Snickers commercial makes me laugh like a mad woman, paprika makes me cry), the vivid dreams where I keep getting lectured by Bill Cosby, my sudden intense cravings for red meat that are so strong I’ve seriously contemplated taking a bite out of a live cow; all signs that point to demon wizard in my hormone-drenched brain.
That said, however, even if I do end up giving birth to a demon wizard (I’m still 70 percent sure I might), I couldn’t be happier. And that demon wizard will be loved unconditionally and dressed up as an adorable tiny bear next Halloween.
Which is why as I’m limping my way across the first trimester finish line, I wanted to share the news with all of you. Even those of you out there who truly hate it when women document their pregnancy journey in a public forum.
Because you know I’m gonna. The fun is just beginning, friends.
Chick Writes Stuff 