I am wearing slightly damp pants this morning. Actually, by now, at 6:21 a.m., they are almost dry as I sit at a coffee shop (not a new school "coffee shop" like Starbucks or Coffee Bean, but an old school truck stop where you eat hash and eggs coffee shop) and write this.
I found out I was pregnant via IVF a couple of weeks ago and have been tired beyond anything I could ever have imagined. I get home from work and fall into bed. Last night, in a fit of positiveness that I could stay awake, I washed the pants I wanted to wear today. I had to wash them because they were the same pants I wore yesterday and the ones I spilled cottage cheese on driving to work. Right now, only one pair of pants fit because with all the hormones and the pregnancy, I look like a sausage version of my former self. It doesn't help that every suit (I wear skirt suits) is at the cleaners.
This morning, I woke up, took a shower and walked to the laundry room in my robe. Cursing, I grabbed my pants out of the washer and tried to throw them into the dryer with the load of towels from last night. The towels were still wet and the dryer wouldn't turn on so I put the pants on damp and went to get ready. As I combed my hair back, I noticed that the left edges are starting to turn grey and my keratin straightening treatment was done so long ago that my hair is a mass of frizz and curl, but I have neither the time nor the inclination (too worried about the chemicals) to get my hair done.
I fed the dogs, walked them outside briefly and kissed my husband goodbye while whispering in his ear, "The dryer won't turn on." Even though I knew I should wait for the towels to dry, I didn't. I thought that maybe my hubby would take care of it and maybe he would even fold the towels (wishful thinking, instead my mother-in-law would probably give me a glare when I got home).
Plus, I needed to write.
Further exacerbating my mess of a self is the worry tickling the back of my mind at all times like a constant feather. A worry that the pregnancy won't take. Every twinge sends me into a panic and while I know I must relax, I also know that relaxation is not in my nature.
Maybe things would be easier if I could stay home which is not an option. I need my benefits and salary. Of course, I wish I could stay in bed for ten months just to make sure everything turns out OK. And, I wish there was a guarantee. Alas, I know there is not.
While trying to write and eat, I spill egg on my shirt and think, this is not going to get better. I am a mess. A chunky, damp pant and stained shirt wearing hot stinking mess.
I would not have it any other way.