Good, though remarkably unsurprising, news: I’m not pregnant.
Well, okay, there’s a tiny chance I may be, but only if there’s been some divine intervention at work. It’s possible. There’s precedent.
Short of miraculous conception, there is no conceivable—ha, ha—way that I’m pregnant. I am not a biologist, but I did make an A in Honors Biology in college (and I can prove it; earning an A in that class was so very extraordinary that the Biology Department gave out certificates to prove it. I still have mine, somewhere.)
Though I can no longer recall the intricacies of the ATP chain, I can tell you with perfect assurance that human conception does not happen unless a sperm gets cozy with an egg. My womb has been living in quiet solitude for an extraordinarily long time, certainly longer than the nine months required to carry a baby to term. No inquisitive sperms (or eggs, for that matter) have come remotely near my own reproductive organs in ages. And ages. And ages.
I have not visited any fertility clinics. Nor have I been abducted my aliens, unless they were mighty quick about it, and I think I’d have noticed.
I am, therefore, not pregnant, not unless I’m carrying the second Messiah, and my period ended just a few days ago so I doubt that’s it.
Why are we even discussing this?
Because I’ve been having some crazy mood swings, the type I normally associate with pregnant women. I know all about pregnant women and their behavior. I worked in a maternity store for two years (which, in my estimation, should knock two years off my sentence in purgatory), and believe me, I know about pregnant women. They’re crazy. They are absolutely apeshit. Some of them are marvelously happy, some of them are mortified, some of them are scared, but all of them are, without exception, certifiably insane.
No idea why I’ve been so moody. I don’t think it’s a fault of my regular hormones. I’m not taking any drugs, I haven’t had a drop of alcohol in weeks, my life has been normal.
Maybe it’s stress from the book?
Maybe it’s the godawful holidays?… Yeah, let’s blame the holidays. They have a special, wicked ability to make anyone feel lonely and sad. “April is the cruelest month,” is it? Bah. December is. I like the true meaning of Christmas, i.e., the birthday of Jesus and getting presents, but all the stuff about being with family and friends? Ugh. Holiday fervor emphasizes how few friends one has, and how far distant family is.
(See? I am whining. I am feeling sorry for myself. I try not to do this publicly, because it is all sorts of pathetic, which just goes to show how yucky I’m feeling.)
My weird mood has manifested in some spectacular ways. I noticed it in yoga last night, right at the very beginning, well before we got to any of the difficult poses. I was sitting on my mat, legs crossed, eyes closed, doing basically nothing. (I think I was supposed to be concentrating on tranquility or somesuch, but I’m not very good at that.)
So I’m sitting there, trying to look all meditative and enlightened, listening to Yoga Instructor Jennifer guiding us through the first few moments.
“Breathe deeply,” said Yoga Instructor Jennifer.
“Fuck that,” I thought. “You can’t tell me what to do.” And I commenced not to breathe at all for half a minute, just to be defiant.
“Breathe deeply.” We’re not talking about a major imposition, here—and for the record, I deliberately pay her money to tell me what to do.
But no, I was feeling belligerent. Absurd, I know, but I was cranky and cantankerous. I spent almost the whole class feeling weepy.
(Almost the whole class. There were two poses that drew me out of my bad mood, probably because they were difficult. Hard to feel much of anything when you’re on all fours but upside down, i.e., when you are in a full backbend. Also hard to feel anything except a sense of accomplishment when you are in your very first handstand. Granted, I needed help to get up there—but I managed it all by myself when I got home that night, and then again this evening. I am nearly ready to go to clown school, I think. Goodbye, library! Hello, circus!)
Why was I all sniffly and depressed during yoga? Don’t know, but I resolved that the only way to make myself feel better was to get takeout Chinese. Which did make me feel better, except that it probably added a pound to my tummy, which makes me feel worse. Paradoxes! Can’t live with ’em, can’t live without ’em!
My inexplicable grouchiness reared its head again this afternoon, though in this case it was quite explicable, now that I think on it. Because I do not talk about patrons here, I can’t give you identifying details. (I talk about patrons generally, but not specifically.) But here are the essentials: I wear a nametag, but at the time of this incident, my scarf was inadvertently obscuring my name. Rather than asking for my name, this patron leaned over the desk and moved my scarf out of the way, brushing his finger against my breast in the process.
Thing is, I think he was just clueless. I am quick, perhaps too quick, to see sexual impropriety. It’s a defense mechanism born of years of creeps, jerks, pervs, and weirdos. But because I have encountered so many creeps, jerks, pervs, and weirdos, I’m pretty good at spotting men who aren’t. This guy wasn’t. I really don’t think he was copping a feel. He was just insensitive to the standards of personal space. Way insensitive.
Wish my anger had manifested itself then, as opposed to the beginning of yoga class, which is about the most peaceful setting imaginable. If I could manage to summon my ire at useful moments, I could have told this guy off. Even if he didn’t mean to do anything inappropriate, the fact remains that he touched my breast. That’s not acceptable.
(So, if it’s unacceptable, why did I accept it? I have a college degree in women’s studies and a passion for feminist activism. If I can’t confront these people, who can?)
But don’t worry: I am sure I will have my spirits restored when I go to clown school. If red rubber noses and hilarious wigs can’t fix me, nothing can.