BETWEEN A BUMP AND A HARD PLACE

Week nine – I’m on an elevator. 

“How far along are you?” asks a male neighbor, presumptuously. 

Smiling, I reply “about nine weeks.”

“Wow!” he exclaims.  “My wife’s four months and you’re MUCH bigger than her.”

Week twelve – A family member gasps at the sight of me and insists I replace cookies with salad for the remainder of my prenatal period. 

Teary-eyed, I retrieve Chips Ahoy from the supermarket.

Week fifteen – I engage my pants in a twenty minute battle for closure.  Finally, my button submits – victory!  Walking into the office however, I discover I’ve forgotten the zipper.  RETREAT!

OK, so I popped early.  And yes, my clothes are snug.  And wow, people are not shy!

But I don’t need any reminders, guys.  Life reminds me constantly!

I’m blessed to have never really struggled with my weight.  This is the biggest I’ve ever been.  And while I’m THRILLED to be pregnant, it has already taken a wee toll.  I mean, walking is hard; sleeping is hard; driving is hard!  I’m not whining, but in the immortal words of Ron Burgundy “that escalated quickly!”

Being a positive person I decided to embrace my bump and schedule a cute WE’RE PREGNANT photo shoot.  Excitedly, I made plans to pick up booties and pumpkins and bellylicious outfits.  That was until I was asked “…but are you really big enough for a photo shoot like that?”

Well – I don’t know. 

What’s big enough? 

What’s too big? 

I’m trying to turn lemons into lemonade here, people (errr fat into Facebook likes) – somebody please throw me a bone!

All of that said, my doctor says I’m right on track.  

So please excuse me while I tune you out and get ready for my close up.

ONE FLEW OVER THE FIRST TRIMESTER

I sat on the couch, surrounded by boxes, fighting back angry tears.  With half my kitchen packed up, Will and I were at the mercy of the pizza delivery guy --- and he was late. 

Way late. 

Two and a half hours late. 

“Where the !@#$ is this guy?!” I screamed.  By now I was pacing the cardboard laden apartment.

Poor Will sat white knuckling his phone.  “I… I don’t know, boo.  They’re usually on time.”

“I HAVE to eat, Will – you don’t understand!”

“Okay.  I’ll call again.”

This hunger was desperate.  I had never experienced anything like it.  I was Shirley MacLaine and that pizza was the shot to end my child’s agony.  All she had to do was hold on ‘til 8 and its past 10:30.  GIVE MY FETUS THE FOOOOOOOOD!!!

This was not my only meltdown. 

A week prior I became completely overwhelmed by a plumbing fixture catalog.  Ironically, the only place I felt safe was the tub.  There I sat fully clothed, curtain drawn until I decided which shower head to buy for our master loo.

Fast forward to week 12:  sobbing alone in a work bathroom stall because I couldn’t recall the last time I looked deeply into my husband’s eyes.  Moments later I would think of nachos and feel much better.

This pregnancy schizophrenia baffled Will.  “You’re only a little pregnant” he would say “how could you already feel this [hungry/moody/tired]?” 

I wanted to be mad at that question, but the truth is I was confused too.  I was once a sane person.  How did I go from 0 to 60 seemingly overnight?

The answer of course is hormones.  Estrogen and progesterone may be vital to the construction of human life but they also make you a sweaty, snotty, tender, exhausted raving bitch-monster.

I'm happy to report that with my first trimester coming to a welcomed close, I'm finally feeling a little more stable. 

But make no !@#$ing mistake --- I’m still not sharing my mozzarella sticks. 

Especially when they arrive three hours late.

BABY STEPS

It was after 8 PM that mild January evening when I finally collapsed in a defeated heap on the couch.  Will trailed behind me.  “Food?” he asked.  “Food!” I demanded.  The events of the day had drained and starved us.  But, somewhere between the disorganized walk-through, the delayed closing and the maddening negotiations – Will and I were homeowners.    

After months of underwriting, haggling and check-writing – we had won!

I expected to wake up eager to pack our apartment and pick bathroom fixtures.  Instead, I was utterly hung over.  Stress always knocks me out and it seemed the closing had allowed a cold to sneak in.  I made the earliest possible appointment with my physician and shuffled off to work.

I was early to my appointment that Thursday, desperate for an antibiotic or ANYTHING to cure this fatigue.  I hadn’t felt this tired since Lyme disease and no amount of sleep seemed to help. 

The nurse’s line of questioning was pretty typical. 

“When did this start?”

“Any allergies that you’re aware of?”

“Are you pregnant?”

When I didn’t answer her last question, the nurse looked up from her notes.

“Am I pregnant?”

Until that moment it hadn’t occurred to me.  Since our honeymoon, I put myself through a roller-coaster self-doubt, excitedly purchasing pregnancy tests each 27^th of the month only for my period to come the next day.  It got to be so ridiculous that my Mom actually snapped “Don’t buy any more tests until you’re late!” 

Fair enough.

“It’s possible,” I told the nurse “but not likely.”

 “I see here it’s possible you’re pregnant?” the doctor asked, scanning the notes.

“I’m not late or anything, but it’s possible.” I conceded.

“Well let’s take a urine sample and find out.”

At least home pregnancy tests relieve your suspense in a matter of minutes.  It had been HOURS since I left the doctor’s office and still no word.  Anxious, I phoned around 4 but he’d already gone for the day. 

The next morning, my anxiety was gone.  I was crampy so I popped a tampon and started to get ready for work.

“What’s the weather supposed to be today?” Will asked from the living room.

“Not too bad.” I said, pinning my hair up. 

The phone rang and with my hands busy I just threw it on speaker phone.

“Alex, I’m so sorry for the delay but I JUST got the results of your pregnancy test.”

I didn’t even stop what I was doing as I heard him shuffling papers on the other end.

“Hmm, okay…” he said, “It’s positive.”

“Wait… what?”

“It’s positive.”

“So… wait, positive means… that I’m pregnant.”

“You’re pregnant.”

“I’m pregnant??”

“You’re pregnant!!!”

SILENCE.

“This is good news, right?”

“Oh my God… of course!  Of course!” I said.

I then remembered Will was still in the next room.  I hung up with the doctor and walked in to find him completely still, somewhat happy but mostly bewildered.

“I assume... you heard…” I asked tentatively.

“Yes.” 

My eyes filled with tears as he swept me into the biggest hug of my life.

"I can't believe we have to go to work now like nothing happened!"

He looked down at me and said lovingly “I guess it’s a good thing we bought that house, huh?”

ELLIPSES…

“Maybe I don’t need to do this anymore.  I could get some cats, take up knitting and live a perfectly content life without this nonsense.  And of course, there’s always lesbianism.” 

Remember that, readers?  Only three short years ago, I was a single girl on a ‘laborious’ mission to find her soul mate.  It seems like a lifetime has passed since I felt this way about love; that I could expedite fate with an attractive profile picture or a clever ‘about me’ section. 

 “One year on an online dating site. The goal: to find someone normal without being abducted in the process.” 

HA!

Earnest?  Seemingly.

Frustrating?  Definitely.

Entertaining?  I’d like to think so.  J

Ultimately though, my mission was doomed.  Along the way there were disastrous dates and fruitless flings.  There were sassy similes and manscaping metaphors. 

There was also alliteration…

…a lot of alliteration!

Sadly though, there was no love.   

I lost. 

But it wasn’t until I lost that I could truly win it all.  These “de-blog-cles” were little adventures that taught me about myself and the things I wanted.  Each date was a step further from the pain of my previous break-up.  Every tear was another stride toward the woman I wanted to be.  Every friend; every vacation; every comment; every kind man who built me up and every jackass that put me down inspired me to grow and change and strive.  EVERY moment was important.           

I’m an ellipses---an eternal work in progress---but now I’m happy to say that I have someone to progress with.  We met 1 year and 9 months ago at a party on Long Island.  I noticed him in the kitchen and he noticed me on the porch.  When he finally turned and asked

“Would you like to have coffee sometime?”

I hopped the porch railing, ran barefoot through the grass, met him in the middle of the yard and said “Ok.” 

On the car-ride home I called my mother and told her that I met the man I was going to marry.  I was horribly lost but it didn’t matter. 

On March 16^th, when he got down on one knee and asked me if I’d do him the honor of becoming his wife, without hesitation, I said “YES!”

The hard part is over, right?  I mean… planning a wedding has GOT to be easier than dating…hasn’t it?

We’ll see…

THE LOVE BOAT (PART II)

After a simply exhausting day on the beaches of Corsica, Amanda and I decided to nap, supp and explore the ship.  It was that evening (on the predominately European boat) that we stumbled upon an English-speaking hang out---the piano bar.  As we passed by, a sexy Australian voice serenaded the crowd with pub-favorites and funny jokes; jokes I could actually understand.

Happy to hear something I didn’t need Amanda to translate, I convinced her to duck in for a drink.  There were Scotts, Irishmen, Australians, Englishmen and even a few Americans---but still, no potential flings in site.  Everyone was holding someone else’s hand, or (depending on their alcohol intake) someone else’s tush.

We avoided those people.

We held onto our drinks instead and moved closer to the piano.  The pianist looked up and smiled as if to welcome us to his humble home. 

Once some of the sillier songs were out of the way, he began crooning a Sinatra classic---Fly Me to the Moon.  My ears perked up as his vocals took on an almost Jamie Cullum quality; with a confidence and rasp I hadn’t heard in his other ditties.

Side-note… Jamie Cullum ranks number two in the “men I’m allowed to leave you for” list.  When I enter into a serious relationship, my terms are clear.  If someday I meet and/or manage to intrigue Michael Buble, Jamie Cullum, George Clooney or James Morrison, pack yo’ bags, sucka! 

But, I digress…

As the set was ending, Amanda nudged me.  “Ask if you can sing one, Al!”

[Amanda and I routinely seek ways to show off our vocal prowess in public; in her opinion this was a golden opportunity.]

“Oh… no.  People are leaving and I’m sure this gentleman has other things to do.”

“So you’re a singer, aye?” the Australian musician interrupted.

“Yes” I chuckled.  “I sing jazz back in New York.”

“Are you taking the piss out of me?” he asked.

“Oh, umm… piss?  No, of course not, I don’t want your pi---”

“So what are we singing?” he laughed.

I softly performed The Nearness of You, after which he invited me for a drink.

Twenty minutes later, we were sitting in a booth at the club, conversing quite easily.  He wasn’t wonderful looking, and his club-dancing turned out to be hilariously awkward---but what he was about to say would seal the deal.

“I’ve actually met Cullum!”

This seemed so inconceivable, so incredible, so indescribable, I had to hear it again.

“Wha-wha-what now?”

“Yeah… we were signed to the same label back in the day.  He bought me a drink and told me about his upcoming covers.  He’s a goofy mate, I tell ya.”

Great voice, nicely dressed, no wedding ring AND he was now the *one* degree of separation between me and my creative idol.  Sold!  This guy was getting a kiss!

We sauntered along the windy decks, discussing music, performing and family.  Being a ship-employee, he knew all the best views.  “Ladies first.” He said as we climbed the stairs to an upper deck.  But I couldn’t wait… I wanted my kiss and I wanted it now!  I turned around to meet his gaze---er, at least I would have met his gaze if I hadn’t tripped on my heel and fallen down five steps.

“Oh shit!” he screamed.  “Are you okay?”

“Oh yeahh…. Fine.  Nobody saw that.”   

“What was that about?”

“I was turning around because, well…[what did I have to lose?] I thought you might like a kiss.”

“Oh…” he replied.  “Alex I would,” he said helping me up.  “You’re lovely, but there are cameras everywhere.  I’d get the sack if they caught me fraternizing with a guest.”

“Right… right.  That makes sense.”

--- Awkward silence---

“Well… I’d better turn in.” I said, limping away.

“Are you sure you don’t want…”

“I’m good!  Have a great night!”

And the saga continues...

THE LOVE BOAT (PART I)

Three coins lighter, it was time for the second part of our trip---the cruise!  Fat Fabrizio (one of our new Roman friends) graciously discounted his car service to get us to port.

“Tell [skinny] Fabrizio we love-ah him!” I thought as we said our goodbyes.  Though I was excited for our new experience, leaving Rome was a bittersweet parting. 

BUT---within a couple hours we were on the Mediterranean and I---a personal mission.  Somewhere between the magic of the Trevi fountain and my first breath of salty air, I vowed to get me a sweet vacation kiss before this trip was out.

Now, I don’t care who you are or which direction your moral compass points; most people crave a little fling while on vacation.  So, it’s only with slight shame that I declare I’m no exception.   The ship was filled with bars, lounges, nightclubs, and many promising opportunities to mix and mingle.  Plus we were scheduled for six stops, and we’d surely pick up a few more hotties along the way.  This is going to be a piece of cake, I thought.

Amanda and I sat at the bar reviewing pictures from our day in Genoa.  We’d been to an aquarium, eaten pounds of delicious pastry and (most importantly) purchased some FABULOUS $7 shoes.  There was only one problem---day two had almost ended, and I was still no closer to my aqua-romance.

“Amanda, seriously… where are all the men?” 

“Hmm, let’s see,” she replied.  “Were you looking for married, gay, man-whore, under age, toothless, wrinkly or just plain creepy?”

It was true.  If they weren’t already taken, most of our fellow cruisers were simply not fling material.  As I was about to throw in the towel, a strapping Italian man caught my eye.  I ran through the usual vitals---cute face, nicely dressed, no wedding ring.  Check.  This man would do.

Via Amanda, [my bi-lingual buddy] I soon learned that bachelor number one was a 24-year-old, Italian speaking man who worked in his parent’s pizzeria.  Thinking I could get by with my Eng-talian, he and I decided to take a walk for some get-to-know-each-other-and-possibly-smooch time.  

Under normal circumstances, I’m usually able to scale the language barrier with gestures and context clues, but in this case I was finding it extremely difficult.  He was shy and awkward and seemed to ignore everything I was saying.  Searching for an explanation, I spotted a forgotten vital that stood to greatly impede our progress:  He was wearing a hearing-aid.  Now it made sense---he could barely hear me, let alone understand me.  Nice Alex convinced me that this could NOT be a deal-breaker; it’d be cruel to exclude a man just because of something like that.  Suddenly, bachelor number one stopped me on the deck, looked me in the eye and brokenly solicited one request: 

“I no.. umm… mm, love wo-man… ever.  Umm, mm, you-ah… teach?”  He slid a condom out of his pocket and looked at me with hope in his inexperienced, virginal eyes.

“Voglio restare come amici.”  Write that one down girls… it means “let’s just be friends.”

THREE COINS

The most profoundly magical evening in Rome was spent at the Trevi Fountain.

Built in 1629, this fountain is a crowning achievement of Roman art and ambition.  But the popularity of this titanic Italian icon is fueled not just by it's size or architecture, but rather its legend.     

To throw one coin into the fountain will guarantee your return to Rome.  

If it's a new romance you seek, you must part with two coins.  

But, for those pining for marriage (or sometimes, more appropriately, divorce) you must buy your wish by tossing three coins into the mystical water.

So, how many coins would I throw?  One coin was a no-brainer---who wouldn't want to come back to Rome?  And a new romance---that's easy too.  I was on vacation; everyone wants a little romance on vacation.  But marriage?  With my track record (as you've followed with excruciating detail), a happy marriage sometimes felt like an impossible, unreachable pipe-dream---one I wasn't eve sure I wanted to try for.

So, did I want to admit that marriage was on my to-do list?  

I looked around, took a deep breath, and tossed three coins into the water.

I blame the vino.