…to my favorite ratty sweatshirt:
A) it is one of the very few warm articles of clothing that still fits me;
B) it is comfortable;
C) what are they going to do, fire me?
I’ve had this sweatshirt since 1997, having “acquired” it from a high school friend (O HAI MYRA) after I borrowed it and then left for college with it still on my person. (I know, I’m a dick.)
My sweatshirt and I endured a brief separation after I left it at a friend’s house and his roommate found it and started wearing it snowboarding. I was at that friend’s house more than a year later (it was a different house, even), when I saw my beloved sweatshirt slung over a chair. (queue: “Reunited”)
We’ve been together ever since, although I think if the opportunity presented itself, my mom would take the sweatshirt and quietly torch it with an expression of grim satisfaction on her face. Every time she sees me in it, she makes a comment like, “Oh, you still have that sweatshirt. That’s…that’s great.” Once, she even tried to buy me a new navy blue sweatshirt, but it just wasn’t the same.
…to my mom:
She really is an angel. Nothing like me whatsoever. Which means it is pretty easy to shock her (a skill I have been honing for years).
Yesterday, I sent her this cartoon:
…to my hormones:
I go from being so blissfully happy that I’m nearly in tears, to being so utterly furious that I’m nearly in tears. I can’t run, I can’t sleep, I can’t breathe, I pee every five minutes, there is a foot jabbing me in my ribcage, and I can only eat about four bites of food before I feel like that fat dead guy from Seven.
I am also more than a little impatient to meet this baby friend I’ve been so generously hosting for the last 37 weeks. And…maybe I just don’t know enough to be properly terrified, but I’m not even (yet) dreading the agony of labor. I really just want it to happen so I can be not pregnant anymore. I almost don’t remember what that feels like. And I could use a beer.