Knocked Up Page 4

  I went out with Lena tonight, to a bar where the men wear tight black ribbed turtlenecks and the girls wear tank tops and open-toe heels even though it’s the middle of winter and there’s a foot of snow on the ground. I was wearing tight jeans, which still fit. I indulged in a glass of red wine and a couple of smokes. I’m going to pretend I live in France, where this is acceptable behavior for a pregnant woman. Now is not the time to quit. I don’t need more stress in my life.

  “Oh, don’t worry. You’re not pregnant,” said Lena again, refusing to indulge me.

  “I’m not sure I should be drinking this,” I told her, as the waitress placed our drinks on the table.

  “Oh, don’t worry about that. All of our mothers drank and smoked like sailors when they were pregnant. Why do you think they didn’t gain that much weight? And. You. Are. Not. Pregnant. How many times do I have to tell you that?”

  “But I think I have all the symptoms,” I told her. “I’ve spent hours researching early pregnancy symptoms and I have them all! Except the missed period part. I’ll have to wait another week to find that out. Lena, are you listening to me?”

  Lena was busy eyeing the door to see if anyone she knew had come in and if there were any possible conquests to be had, while giving the other women in the bar the once-over, to size up her competition.

  “Yeah, yeah. I’m listening. You have symptoms. What are they?”

  “I’m moody. Very moody. And I’m so tired all the time. And I’m emotional. This woman on the street today almost made me cry when she walked into me by accident. I had this urge to slap her, and then tears sprang to my eyes. What’s that about? And I feel kind of queasy when I wake up.”

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, Beck,” said Lena, “but you are always moody. You are always emotional. You are always tired. You are queasy because you are making yourself sick with worry. It would be very hard to tell by those symptoms if you really are pregnant or if you are just being your good ol’ bitchy self.”

  “I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that. I think my breasts are bigger. Do they look bigger to you?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “I’m going to visit the fiancé in a week. I’ll get him to check my boobs.”

  “Does he know you’re freaking out about this?”

  “I think he’s freaking, too. I think he knows I know he’s freaking like I know he knows I’m freaking. But we pretend we don’t know.”

  “Don’t even worry about it until you can take a test. Hey, where’s the waiter? I need another drink. Check out that guy over there. He’s kind of cute, right? But I’m not sure about his pants. They’re a little too suburban or something. Should I go meet him, or what?”

  “Just use a condom if you do,” I suggested to her. “That’s my only advice. Use a condom.”

  I suppose this is why women pay for therapy. Sometimes friends just don’t listen long enough.

  FEBRUARY 8

  The thing about maybe, possibly being pregnant is that you can’t get it out of your mind that you maybe, possibly are pregnant. No matter how much you want to forget about it, you can’t. All you are left to do is to think of things like the type of pregnant woman you would like to be and the type you definitely don’t want to be.

  If I am pregnant, I would like to be as sexy as that infamous photo of a very pregnant Demi Moore on the cover of Vanity Fair, or like the very pregnant Brooke Shields, proudly flaunting her belly on the cover of Vogue. It would be great to be like the very pregnant Academy Award winner Catherine Zeta-Jones, who attended the Oscars even though she looked like she was about to go into labor at any second. I would like to be the type of pregnant woman who loses all her weight three seconds after giving birth, like Sarah Jessica Parker and Elizabeth Hurley and Kate Moss and every other woman who gives birth in Hollywood or New York. I would also like to be like Jennifer Aniston’s character on Friends, who had the most amazing maternity wardrobe.

  I know the type of pregnant woman I definitely do not want to be. I do not want to be the type who bores all my friends by always talking about how I’m feeling and what I’m going through (though it may already be too late for that). I do not want to turn into an overanxious, health-freak hypochondriac who won’t leave her house for fear of inhaling car fumes. I definitely do not want to become the type of pregnant woman who, because it’s easier, decides to cut her hair above her ears. I do not want to become boring and wear 1980s-style stretchy pants. And I absolutely do not want to join a mommies’ group. I’m not even sure I like other mommies that much.

  I’m not sure why I’m so consumed by all of this. Like all the friends I’ve told have said, what are the chances?

  FEBRUARY 9

  It’s really the fiancé’s parents’ fault that I might be pregnant. Not that I’m pointing fingers. Our engagement party was originally scheduled for the 18th, but they had a wedding to attend that night. We moved the party back one week, to the 25th. When you think about it—as I have—if they hadn’t had that wedding to go to, everything would have turned out so very differently. One week earlier, I wouldn’t have been at my most fertile time. Still, his parents didn’t force me, in my drunken state, to beg their son to stay inside of me. But I beg their son to do a lot of things for me and he doesn’t listen. Why did he listen that night? So it’s his fault too.

  Women have an inherent skill, which men don’t have, for twisting and changing reality to meet their needs. I once attended a dinner party with six married couples. I posed the question to the men, “How many of you guys proposed only after your wife told you that you had to?” Five of the six couples admitted it was the woman who first brought up that she wanted to get married. You never hear engaged or married women saying, “Oh, it was so romantic. I begged and pleaded and threatened to walk out on him until he proposed.” You only ever hear, “Oh, it was so romantic. He got down on one knee and told me how he couldn’t imagine his life without me, and then when I dug into my strawberry shortcake, there was a pear-shaped diamond!”

  One woman I know posted a calendar on the refrigerator door with her deadline for her live-in partner to propose, as if it were a “Things to Do” list. Sometimes men do need a kick in the pants, though. I tried giving my fiancé The Deadline a couple of times. He never really took me seriously, and about a week after I had given him The Deadline I would forget the date. Of course, giving a man The Deadline is never a wise idea. Even after the fiancé proposed, though it really was a surprise, I cried, “You really didn’t want to, did you? It’s only because I practically forced you to propose to me.”

  “No. You couldn’t have made me propose to you. I couldn’t be forced into something as serious as this,” he had told me. “I proposed because I wanted to.” Which made me happy.

  I never really thought about having children until I reached age twenty-seven—in fact, I remember feeling the first twinges when I saw a baby right on my twenty-seventh birthday. They were fleeting twinges, but I felt them. But I never felt the urgency to procreate. I had time, I thought. A lot of time. First I had to rule the world. It’s the same thing with marriage. I never dreamed about my wedding day when I was a child—to this day I have never dreamed about it. But when I hit twenty-seven, getting engaged suddenly became an absolute necessity, like potato chips after smoking a joint. It was all I could think about. Why hasn’t he proposed? When is he going to propose? What is wrong with me that he hasn’t proposed? Is he ever going to propose? All around me, everyone seemed to be getting engaged—women younger than me, who had been with their boyfriends for much less time than I had been with my guy. When the whole world seems to be getting engaged and you’re not, you become paranoid that it’s never going to happen for you. Which is why you can’t help but come up with The Deadline. And then, once he does propose, you put a spin on the memory.

  In the same way, I’m going to need a spin on this pregnancy. Instead of “Well, the fiancé and I got looped at our engagement party. Then, in th
e throes of passion, I begged him to stay in me, and then the idiot did, and now, in a few short months, we’re going to have a baby! Hurray for us!” I’ll have to say something like “We talked about it and decided we really wanted to get pregnant. It was the right time. We’re so in love. It just seemed the right next step!” But in case no one believes that—because nothing that lovey-dovey has ever come out of my mouth—I’m going to say this was a “love child.” It was a “love child” in the sense that we were very much in love—drunk with love—when the child was conceived. See? It’s easy to put The Spin on things that don’t go the way we think they are supposed to. Women are geniuses at The Spin.

  FEBRUARY 10

  Two weeks ago it seemed everyone I knew was getting married, getting pregnant, or having babies. Now that I may be pregnant, all the people I thought were married and having babies have disappeared. Where did they all go? I couldn’t possibly have imagined all those people, could I?

  Not that any of my worries matter now. I woke up with the most painful cramps I have ever had. My period is for sure coming any second. I took three Advils, as I always do when I get cramps, but the pills are not working like usual. In a matter of days, all this worry will be over and I can get on with my life. I can get my relationship back on track. I can get back to work. I can drink again, without worrying that I am going to give birth to a three-headed circus freak because I indulged in a few glasses of wine and a few cigarettes. Why am I not thrilled then? Why does getting my period depress the hell out of me?

  FEBRUARY 11

  There are definitely right reasons and wrong reasons to have a baby. To buy cute baby clothes and shoes is definitely not a right reason to have a baby. Even I know that. How did people have babies before the Internet, I wonder? I found this list on the Net:

  RIGHT REASONS TO HAVE A BABY

  You and your husband have both chosen to do this.

  You want to start being a giver and stop being a receiver.

  You are finished trying to achieve your goals in the outside world.

  You want the challenge of having a baby.

  You are looking forward to the process of raising a child.

  You want to give birth as a personal expression of yourself.

  WRONG REASONS TO HAVE A BABY

  So your friends and relatives will stop pressuring you.

  Because you have a number of friends who are already mothers.

  To get time off work.

  To guarantee there is someone to take care of you when you are older.

  To be adored by another living being.

  I hate these lists. Unprepared people don’t do lists. It’s like whoever came up with this list has never heard of the “unplanned pregnancy” or “pleasant surprise,” which I know for a fact happens all the time. I read somewhere that more than 50 percent of pregnancies in the United States are unplanned. It was a relief, for about ten seconds, to know that I wasn’t alone. Who wants to stop being a “receiver” all the time? And last time I checked, I haven’t won a Nobel Prize for literature, or even received a raise in a while. So, no, I haven’t exactly achieved my goals in the outside world just yet, but who has? I’m not sure I’m up for the challenge of having a baby—but who ever is, except maybe Celine Dion? I’m not even sure how giving birth would be a personal expression of myself. And, please, what human in this world does not want to be adored by another living being, does not want time off work? And doesn’t everyone worry about being old alone, living with eighteen pet rabbits as their sole companions? I haven’t really thought that my baby might adore me. I’m too busy complaining about how the baby is going to ruin my life while hoping the baby can’t hear me. What if the fetus already needs therapy? None of that’s to say that I couldn’t do it. Just because I’m not looking forward to getting fat and can’t imagine yelling at a thirteen-year-old to clean his or her room doesn’t mean I’m not going to enjoy parenthood, does it?

  FEBRUARY 12

  7:55 a.m.

  Just got my period. I am sure of it . . .

  7:56 a.m.

  False alarm.

  2:00 p.m.

  My period just arrived!

  2:01 p.m.

  False alarm.

  4:34 p.m.

  I know my period just came. This time it’s really for real. I can feel wetness Down There.

  4:35 p.m.

  False alarm again.

  9:00 p.m.

  Great. I got my period and just ruined this pair of DKNY silk pants. I can feel it. This time it’s really, really for real. I am absolutely positive I just got my period.

  11:00 p.m.

  Going to bed. I want to be well rested when I visit the fiancé this weekend. My period did not come.

  FEBRUARY 14

  10:30 a.m.

  On a plane, on my way to visit the fiancé for Valentine’s Day. I will not ruin this weekend with talk of pregnancy, missed periods, babies, or anything at all that has to do with us being parents in the very near future and our lives changing forever. In fact, I will not even call him “babe.” Maybe my period is just late. Or maybe it’s not late. Maybe it’s not supposed to come until Monday. I’m still not exactly sure what day my period came last month. I just know the exact day I bought tampons. I still have wicked cramps. My breasts are very tender. I really do feel like my period is going to come any second. I have finished the bottle of Advil.

  10:00 p.m.

  The fiancé took me out for dinner. It was almost like before the maybe-to-a-good-chance-thathe’s-knocked-me-up days. He didn’t comment when I ordered chicken fingers. The cramps even went away during dinner, but they returned as soon as we got back to his place.

  I love the fiancé’s condo. It’s a bachelor’s kind of place. Although there is no bearskin rug or automatic curtain closers or waterbed, it is definitely more Bachelor Pad than Daddy Pad. There is nothing actually living in this place—no plants, no fish, and, thanks to his once-a-week cleaning lady, no mold. It’s all mahogany, burgundy, marble, and hardwood. He has the most comfortable king-size bed I have ever been in, and blackout blinds to ensure the best sleep possible. He has a steam shower with ledges you can sit on and a huge whirlpool bathtub he’s never used. There are two ovens in the kitchen, which also have never been used. While my place is un-child-friendly because of all the crap and matches and dirty dishes and ashtrays lying around on my floor, his place is equally un-child-friendly because of all the sharp edges and expensive R-rated material—meaning material not meant for sticky children. There’s no way he’d allow a dog on his couch or on his 500-thread-count sheets, let alone a pukey baby. I love his place. Visiting the fiancé is like staying at a hotel, minus the room service. A baby in here would be as out of place as a baby in a strip club.

  We do not have sex tonight. I tell him I have cramps, which is entirely true. The fiancé believes me, of course, but I don’t think that he really believes my period is ever going to come. I know it is. I can feel it.

  FEBRUARY 16

  On the plane heading back home. The weekend was extremely relaxing. We talked about nothing serious. I’m trying not to think about it, but I can’t help it: we did not have sex once this weekend. We barely fooled around. The most sexual we got with one another was when I practically forced him to feel me up.

  “Do my breasts feel larger?” I asked him. “I think they feel larger. They’re definitely more tender. What do you think?”

  “I’m not sure,” he said. “Don’t they always get this way before you get your period?” he asked, taking his hand off my breast. We had been standing in his walk-in closet. Suddenly we are very comfortable with the word “period.” Was he trying to reassure me? Or to reassure himself ?

  “Yeah, I’m supposed to get it any day now. So that’s probably right.” That was the closest we came to talking about me being pregnant.

  If my period doesn’t come by tomorrow morning, I’m going out to buy a home pregnancy test. Then I will know.

  FEBRUA
RY 17

  11:00 a.m.

  In a plastic bag, inside another plastic bag, which is inside my purse, I have the goods. My period never came.

  Purchasing the home pregnancy tests was much as you would expect: a less-than-pleasurable experience. I must remember next time (as if!) not to go shopping for a home pregnancy test dressed in baby blue sweats with my hair in a ponytail. Though I am twenty-nine, even on a good day—a day when I have tried to look like a mature adult— I still get carded for cigarettes and asked for ID when I go to certain bars or to the liquor store. With my hair in a ponytail and wearing baby-colored clothes, I couldn’t help but feel the way I probably looked, standing in front of the home pregnancy tests, to the outside world: like an unwed high school student who did something very stupid.

  I did not tell the fiancé what I was doing today. I’ve decided to tell him only after I know for sure.

  I had no idea that home pregnancy tests were such a big business. There are dozens and dozens on the shelves. Who made the decision, I wondered, to place the home pregnancy tests on the same shelf as the condoms? As if I didn’t already feel silly enough without a box of condoms mocking me.

  “Can I help you?” asked the white-haired pharmacist. I had been standing there, in front of the condom/pregnancy-test shelf, for fifteen minutes. There was one thing I needed this pharmacist to know: I desperately needed him to know that I was engaged and not, as he probably assumed, a careless student who had possibly screwed up her life. I needed this pharmacist to know that there was a man out there who loved me enough to ask me to marry him, so it was okay that I was having sex. How do I flash my ring and make it look like nothing out of the ordinary?

  “Did you want to purchase some condoms?” he asked.

  “Ah, no.” Could this possibly get any worse? It’s like I was an actor in a bad after-school special. I tried to be clever. “But that would have been great a couple weeks ago.” The pharmacist didn’t attempt a smile.

  “Are all these home pregnancy tests the same?” I asked him, running my left hand, the one with the engagement ring, along the shelf. “There are just so many brands,” I mused, continuing to run my hand along the shelf.