After spending the last few days with constant nausea and frequent vomitosous, my girlfriend who’s pregnant has had enough.
“That’s it.” she told me early Thursday morning. “I refuse to throw-up even one more time.”
“What are you going to do?” I asked curiously.
She thought about it for a moment. “I’m writing a letter to God.”
Pregnancy, from what I can witness as an innocent bystander, is not what it’s cracked up to be. First of all, your figure flies out of the window at the speed of light. One minute my girlfriend was svelte and toned, the next minute she looked like a commercial for hot fudge sundaes. Not that she’s eating any. All she eats are carbs and carbs and carbs. Bread has replaced me as her best friend.
Secondly, there’s the sickness. It’s like having the flu for months. There’s no clubbing, no booty-shaking, and no shopping on Rodeo Drive when a bout of vomitosous can you hit you at any moment. My girlfriend has thrown up in the car, in her neighbor’s front yard, at the grocery store, at work, on random sidewalks, at the library, in many public restrooms, and pretty much all over certain parts of Los Angeles. That is not sexy.
Next is the fashion. It is really, really hard to look good when nothing fits you. And the stores out there; Pea in the Pod? Modern Maternity? It’s worse than shopping at Walmart and twice as expensive. So my girlfriend walks around looking like a hot mess on a Vogue’s ‘What Not To Wear’ page. Leggings, long sweaters, and lots of jewelry – these are the staples of a pregnant woman’s wardrobe.
And finally, my girlfriend has had it with the constant urination. As if she doesn’t spend enough time in the bathroom, now she’s going in there every 20 minutes because a certain somebody is pressing down on her bladder. “Really?” she asks me. “This is what everybody gets so excited about? Waking up all night, hefting myself out of the bed, and waddling through the dark into bathroom? I’ve walked into just about every piece of furniture in the house.” she shows me a large bruise on the side of her head from where she bonked herself on a cabinet. “I think I’m missing something. Aren’t I supposed to have a happy glow?” I look at her and grimace. Poor thing is greener than a lima bean.
So God, if you’re listening, you’re going to get a letter soon asking for either no more morning sickness or some favors. Something about no trouble through the teenage years, straight A’s, and perfect teeth.