numb3rs

It's October 25, so I'm exactly two months away from my due date.

Two.

Months.

And as I'm also exactly thirty one weeks pregnant today, two months must be equal to exactly nine weeks, and that confuses me (which? Not hard, as demonstrated by my relationship with the cash register at work. All that's required to operate that bitch is to press this button here and *bing* cash drawerenzee openzees, which it doesn't for me because I don't know. Once upon a time, all I did was stand next to the fool thing for it to freak its shit out until Mitch went on an archeological dig to retrieve the operating manual from christ knows where and did some shit to it until it eventually went 'ding!' and had the evil spirit residing within exorcised from its soul)

So anyway, it's a big day today as apart from being a mere freakout away from being a mother, I'm also trading in the love of my life (that'd be my car) for a later model, family truckster that simply does NOT thrill my socks off the way my (two door, sporty and totally baby unsuitable and what? Put a stoller in there? Surely you jest!) car does.

Despite getting what was literally the deal of the century, I've been crying since I signed the contract. It's not the exchange of cars that's so upsetting (well, it is, because I have this quirky testosterone thing going on when it comes to my car), it's the exchange of lifestyles.

At this point, it's probably pertinant to mention my aversion to Four Wheel Drivers and their ridiculously huge Four Wheel Drives, aka 4WDs, which are SUVs for you circus animals. Point being, studies suggest what I already knew, that these fuckers are more arrogant and less likely to adhere to road rules than your regular idiot - who also happens to annoy the living shit out of me because dude, would it kill you to indicate? God. (my life on the roads is hell I tell you, hell)

So where was I? Oh yeah, exchange of lifestyles.

I'm not just trading in a car, I'm letting go of who I was and am theoretically welcoming who I shall be. Except that I'm not welcoming any damn thing because sportsfans, I'm not ready to let go of anything.

I don't want to be a mother.

There, I said it, and I don't feel any better for getting it out there and off my chest.

*sigh*

Don't get me wrong, being pregnant is rocking my world. Maybe more so about four or five weeks ago because in those days of aine and roses, putting on shoes wasn't an act worthy of Ripley's Believe it Or Not - and if there was every a valid argument for having a child within wedlock, there it is, right there. I'm not one for a legal union because I don't need the state to tell me who to live with and who inherits my vast fortune when I die, but god, please, for your own sakes, get married and then procreate, because as sure as eggs are eggs (ova are ova?) there will come a day when you look at your shoes and cry because you can't reach your feet, and that's where he steps in. If he does nothing else of note in your life, you'll appreciate that he can (and will, or god help that lazy fucker) help you bridge the gap between shod and unshod.

Now where was I?