The Scariest Thing in The World

I used to think the most terrifying thing that could possibly happen to me was being haunted by a demon. When working at the cupcake shop that made me fat, one of the bakers told me that my manager had a demon that followed her around and messed with her all the time. She would come out of the bathroom to find a single cupcake in the middle of the tray squished, and the coffee pot in the kitchen would be giggling and saying “red rum” or something. I was pretty sure that was absolutely the most horrifying thing that could ever happen to someone.

I was wrong.

Thinking you’re pregnant is way scarier than that. The second you realize your period is late, a million things come flooding through your head. For me, that moment came at 8:00 a.m. in my friend’s grandmother’s guest room after I had spent the weekend flaunting my carefree youth through Mumford and Son’s Gentleman of The Road “stopover” music festival. I’m still not exactly sure what woke me up, it was either my other friend scream-whispering directions to said grandmother’s house to the young man that was giving her a ride back, or it was God slapping the shit out of me. I think it was God. I rolled over and checked the date on my cell phone. Sure enough, I was 3 days late.

I lay there for a minute trying to think of every unmarried couple I knew that successfully raised babies while still holding on to some semblance of freedom. I could only think of Ross and Rachel. I wasn’t convinced that this was a realistic example of responsible parenting. This made me panic, so I did what any self-respecting girl would do. I ran into the front yard so I would not wake up my friends or interrupt the grandfather’s puzzle he was working on and tried to wish my period into my pants. As I sat on the front steps of this kind elderly couple’s sanctuary, I couldn’t help but feel a little dirty as I googled “how to make your period come.” This was so Marilyn Monroe when I’d always thought of myself as so Jackie O. The Internet proved to be a wealth of information. All I had to do was eat a lot of celery, some exotic fruits, drink some ginger tea, go for a long run, apply a hot compress to my lower abdomen, and settle comfortably into the deepest state of denial I could possibly ever enter. I could do that. This brought me some comfort.  My period would return on a ship made of celery and papaya and return everything to normal.

As I turned to walk inside, I caught a glimpse of myself in the glass door. Who was I kidding? This wasn’t Marilyn Monroe; this was Courtney Love. I had mascara smeared all over my face and a gerbil plantation forming in my hair off the side of my head. I was wearing a long Syracuse t-shirt that couldn’t have been mine and no pants. I was the picture of motherhood, if motherhood was like that movie Thirteen. I couldn’t deal with this yet. My period would come. I had just been “raging” too hard lately and it was blocking my reproductive cycle.

A few weeks passed and there was still no sign of Aunt Flow. Every time I turned on the TV or drove past a billboard, I always saw something to the effect of "ARE YOU PREGNANT AND TOTALLY UNPREPARED? IS YOUR UTERUS BEING OCCUPIED BY THE AFTERMATH OF YOUR IRRESPONSIBLE LUST? TEEN MOM ISN'T SO FUNNY NOW, IS IT, JUNO?" A glimpse of realistic clarity was starting to break through the deep fog of denial that I had been comfortably hiding behind for weeks. I could no longer blame my lack of menstruation on moving to Texas, stress, giving up carbs, reclaiming carbs, my excessive cell phone use, the couple of times I did hot yoga, reading Fifty Shades of Grey, or Miley Cyrus. I had to take a test. I had to find out for sure or this was going to become that show I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant. Except I did know I was pregnant. I just wasn't dealing with it. I decided it was best to pee on the stick in the guest bathroom as to not bring any bad juju to the master bathroom.  I needed to have more periods there. After I completed the pregnancy exam, I sat crisscross applesauce on the floor and stared at the stick until a faint pink plus sign appeared. It was so faint, actually, that I was sure it had malfunctioned. I grabbed the test and burst into the living room, “Alex, look at this” I said outraged as I tossed the urine christened test to my very calm and collected boyfriend, “how am I supposed to tell what this is?” We both agreed that there was only one way to determine if I was incubating our spawn. He would have to take the second test in the pack and see if it was clearer. While we waited for it to develop, I started frantically asking questions that I hoped would bring relief to my situation, such as: "Can I still pull off floppy hats if I'm a mother? Could I ever pull off floppy hats? Will this be more incentive for me to finish my degree? Is this a great excuse to learn the rules of football? Whatever happened to Ross' son Ben anyway? Can I pull off floppy hats more than ever?" He didn't answer. He was staring at the test in his hand. There it was. Clear as day. Negative as my Grandma. I was pregnant.

The interesting thing was that now that I knew, it wasn't so scary. In fact, there wasn't a doubt in our minds that we could do this. There was no doubt in our minds that we wanted to do this. Sure, the timing is off and I’d have to stop eating only microwavable foods, but as we sat there on the bathroom floor staring at the pink plus sign, I knew that everything was going to be okay. I also knew that cupcake demons were still the most terrifying thing in the world. But I hadn't googled the word “episiotomy” yet.

Weight Watchers

            Sometime around August of last year, I decided I should probably get some kind of a part-time job. I was tired of the judgey looks my friends were giving me, not because I wanted to expand my resume or anything. I just wanted to be able to say things like “today is my day off” or “call you after work” or “that was a really hard shift.” I like to have real things to complain about so I seem relatable. I think there’s a pretty fine line between “relatable” bitching and just being a pain in everyone’s ass. I spend most of my life walking that tight line and I wanted to take a proactive step toward the more tolerable side.

I washed my hair and walked into a cupcake shop I had passed a bunch of times on my way to walk around Target while I talked on the phone. I filled out an application and they hired me! The bakery was owned by a pageant mom and a guy that looked like Anthony Weiner who also winked a lot so I figured I’d like it.  All was well in the world of my employment except for one enormous detail that I seemed to have overlooked in all the bliss I was feeling of becoming a respectable young adult with a career. Cupcakes make you super fat when you look at them for eight hours a day with no breaks. Basically all I did for the eight months I worked there was eat cupcakes. Even when I wasn’t at the shop I was eating them. I would hide in the bathroom at social get togethers and eat cupcakes and look at myself in the mirror and scream “LOOK AT YOUR THIGHS!! YOU ARE AN ANIMAL!!” but I couldn’t stop. I became that girl everyone hates. The one that would talk about how fat she was while smashing 1,000-calorie cupcakes into her mouth. Even the bakery manager would poke her head around the corner and passive aggressively whisper “umm just remember you’re only allowed to have ONE free cupcake a day and you’ve far exceeded that” before disappearing into the office to Google her boyfriend. One time a lady came into the shop and said “these are delicious! How are you girls so cute and tiny!” and I think I just deadpanned, “Look at me. I look like Rosanne. I probably have type 2 diabetes but I’m going to go ahead and eat another Mississippi Mud because I have no self worth anymore.” It was really bad. I was like two bites away from pajama jeans. Something had to give.

I went home that weekend and told my mom that I needed gastric bypass surgery and she said she didn’t think our insurance covered that but encouraged me to weigh. I had gained 25 pounds. She suggested I go to a Weight Watchers meeting with her the next day. I didn’t want to. It sounded like a lot of work but I did it anyway because my body was so full of cupcakes there was really nothing behind my eyes anymore. Also, I wouldn’t hate looking like a white girl version of Jennifer Hudson. When we walked in the door we were greeted by an older woman with kind eyes sitting behind a desk. She looked like what Betty Crocker would look like if she too had a blog about different ways to substitute Greek yogurt for sour cream. She made me weigh and wrote my weight down in a tiny book that I was supposed to bring every week. I thought that seemed abrasive. I followed my mother into a large room with rows and rows of bright green, plastic chairs facing a large dry erase board. I was the youngest person there by about 40 years so that made me happy. I’m better received by the elderly. I’m an old soul but I look like I’m 13 and they like that. Before I could make any friends, an energetic (but likeably skinny) man bounced into the room. “GOOD MORNING WATCHERS!” he basically screamed. He was so excited about weight loss. I was so into that. He went around the room and let everyone share something skinny and good that they did that week. After they spoke, he instructed the rest of the group to say “ooooohhh ahhhh” in approval. The couple in front of me was amped about this. They were wearing matching M&M t-shirts and she had M&M earrings and had just taken up daily bike riding. “I don’t know...” she whispered to her husband, “is it notable enough, Honey?” He looked shocked “Sweetie yes!” he said, resting a supportive hand on her knee “any step you take toward your weight loss, is a step in the right direction.” Doris had recently gone on a cruise with her husband and not gained any weight. She got to put a gold star sticker in her book. Marge had had a bad weight loss week and was so down on herself you would have thought she was liquefying Oreo’s and shooting them up behind a Mardel. She didn’t get a star, obviously, but we all let her know that if she stuck to the system she would make it around this dark corner. It was basically AA for chubbies except no one was fat at all, just old. So it was basically Bridge Club.

After everyone was done sharing, we all learned a recipe that was supposed to taste exactly like Red Lobster’s coconut shrimp. Just talking about Red Lobster made me feel safe. I loved it here. After the meeting was over the leader came up and shook my hand and said something like “it works if you work it.” I felt alive. I hated cupcakes in that moment. As I walked out of the brightly colored building and out to my car, I caught a glimpse of myself in the window of a fellow addict’s Lincoln Town Car I still looked pretty bloated, but there was a shimmer of hope in my eyes. I knew that soon, I too, would have my gold star. 

My Bowling Instructor

            I’ve never been good at sports. I’m not saying that in one of those ways where I act like I’m bad at sports but then if you asked me to play a game of tennis I’d show up in head-to-toe Lulu Lemon and hold my own really well. I’m also not saying it in one of those cool hipster ways where my lack of athletic ability can be compensated by my insane ability to do something artistic while looking  toned in gray skinny jeans without ever going to the gym. I’m just horrifically awful at pretty much anything athletic. In middle school, I told my gym teacher I was eternally on my period so he and I could sit on the stage of gymnasium, drink Dr. Pepper and talk about his marriage while the other kids ran laps.

As I got older my morbid lack of coordination became less of a bone of contention in my personal relationships. After a certain point you just learn how to avoid any situation where you’d have to do anything remotely physical. You forget what the humiliation of kickball feels like. You move on. At least that’s what I thought. Then my boyfriend suggested we going on a double date to the bowling alley.

I wasn’t even really nervous or worried. It had just been so long since I had used my arms, I kind of just forgot how they looked when they tried to do things. I mean bowling seems easy enough. Everybody can roll a ball down a slippery wooden hallway, right? Wrong.  I did my usual song and dance. The whole “I’m-so-quirky-and-adorable-that-no-matter-what-happens-im-just-gonna-giggle-my-way-through-this” act that I’ve clung to my whole self-deprecating life. It was kind of my trademark thing. I have always been convinced that if you giggle enough it makes the situation less embarrassing. It didn’t work. I was awful. I literally guttered every ball and you could cut the pity-laced tension in the alley with a knife. I could tell that everyone felt like they’d seen a special needs child get bullied in the hallway or something.  That night as I went to bed I vowed never to touch a bowling ball again.

Eventually that fateful night faded into my memory and I continued with my life, until I made the mistake of mentioning that I wasn’t that good at bowling to my mother over dinner one evening. I could tell she was overly concerned, as she usually was. I could see the wheels turning in her head, but I was in no way prepared for what was next.

She woke me up early the following Monday and announced that she had enrolled me in private bowling lessons. I was mortified but I showed up to the alley at 3pm sharp like I told. I picked a table and waited there pouting, until my instructor walked through the door. She was like an angel in wrangler jeans, Kswiss sneakers, and one of those tans that you can tell has been maintained for way too long. I knew right away this was going to be EXACTLY like Tuesdays with Morrie. She reached out her hand to meet me and as if someone from deep within was speaking for me, I locked eye contact with her and said, “Mold me.”

 By the end of that hour-long session, I was hooked. Granted I hadn’t knocked any pins down yet but I had learned pretty much everything I needed to know about my “coach.” She knew how to fly a plane, had like 60 college degrees, used to be a professional chef in Vegas, had a bunch of time shares, home colors her hair, lives in a mobile home just because she’s a free spirit, is dating like five guys at once that she met on Zoosk, and didn't want me to call after 9pm because she will be busy with one of her boyfriends. Did I mention she installed her own sauna in her mobile home? Usually I’d be annoyed that my bowling instructor was more interesting then me but I was pretty positive she was my spirit animal.

I made an appointment for everyday that week. The second day, she showed me how to hold my shoulders and swing my arm to ensure a straight delivery. She winked at me and told me it was her little secret that she was sharing with me.  The third day we drank green tea and talked about these diet pills she took that aren’t yet approved by the FDA. The fourth day she showed me how to “slide and swing.” The fifth day we talked about her divorce. By the end of the week I had my own ball, bag, shoes, slide sock (bet you don’t know what that is do you?) and I was signed up for her league.

Though I’m really not much better at bowling, I took some very important lessons away from my time with Coach. You know, like never invite two guys you’re dating to Buffalo Wild Wings to watch a Giants game at the same time and that every girl should know how to repair the drainage system in her shower. 

The Urgent Care Waiting Room

I woke up yesterday morning feeling a little under the weather. As the day progressed, it was clear that I had to go to the doctor. There was snot shellacked to my face and my mom kept interrupting my episode of Shahs of Sunset to remind me that it was flu season. I flopped off of my couch and headed to the nearest minor emergency room. When I got there I realized it was packed with people. It was like a germ orgy in there and I was horrified, but I knew I had to stick it out and accomplish my crusade to good health. I marched up to the front desk, looking around defensively at the Medical Center’s inhibitors. “How long?” I said, doing my best to make intimidating eye contact with the skunk-haired receptionist. “Two hours,” she replied flatly. I whimpered a little and picked a seat by the door.

 My waiting room neighbors seemed normal enough, germy but normal. I picked up a WebMD magazine and prepared to start self-diagnosing when I noticed a woman cough her way through the door. She was wearing baby blue flannel pajama pants with penguins all over them and they were backwards, allowing the silver sparkly drawstrings to outline her butt crack.  She also seemed to have forgotten to wear shoes...to a doctor’s office. To make matters worse, she was wearing a red and green shirt with an animated owl on it that read, “Owl I want for Christmas is you.” I hated her instantly yet I was jealous of her. The front desk had given her one of those face masks that made her look like that one emojicon that you never need to use. Her coverall-clad mother and two year old daughter, Arielle, had accompanied her and they picked a seat right next to mine.  Arielle immediately spilled her McDonald’s french fries on the floor and started eating them. For a second I thought Pajama Pants was going to stop her daughter, but instead she just asked her if she remembered how to get home.  PJs seemed to have forgotten. The question made sense; after all she was almost two years of age…she should know that.

I, then, became intensely aware of the other people around me listening closely to every conversation. It turned out to be a circus in there. A raspy voice, soaked in hickish undertones, caught my ear next. “It’s like man porn, babe,” I heard him say. This confused me. Isn’t regular porn supposed to be “man porn?” I turned around to see a man in head-to-toe OSU gear and fur insulated Crocs holding up a picture of a goat on his iPhone to show his voluptuous and hairy looking wife. She just laughed and shook her head.  “Boys and their toys"' she muttered to a terrified looking newlywed couple. I was unaware that livestock could be so erotic. Then, Croc-man started talking to them about how his ex-wife recently bought a gun and that he was scared she was going to kill him. Noticing that the couple couldn’t relate to that issue he tried a different social angle, he snickered and said he was excited to take his daughter to the Justin Beiber/Carly Rae Jepson concert. He winked at the nauseous looking pair and said “brownie point sex.” His wife just smiled and tenderly touched his leg. I immediately went to sit by the newlyweds, they had been through as much as I had at this point and we needed each other. The woman was wearing an approachable looking Ann Taylor Loft outfit and her husband was mildy good looking. Well, not really good-looking, but they both looked clean. We made a lot of “this place, right?” eye contact. We didn’t talk or anything but we were both exchanging auras of classiness and social awareness and that was comforting. Things seemed to be going really well until I heard Ann Taylor Loft shriek. It turns out Pajama Pants had run outside, instead of to the bathroom, and was now barfing violently in front of the window directly behind us while Arielle stood and clapped. I admired the clapping a bit. I think its important that every bodily function be rewarded, but I still couldn’t get over her shoeless ways. We watched, regretfully, as PJs straightened, walked back inside, and started eating a cheese stick underneath her mask. Just when I thought it absolutely couldn’t get any worse, I noticed a little boy crying and a toothless woman comforting him. “Sweetie, your brother is at the doctor because he has a big, big hole in his arm. Gammy could stick her finger right through it and touch all way to his bone!” She then made a motion like she was screwing something into a wall. The boy screamed and ran from his grandmother with a look of sheer terror. 

Finally they called my name…I looked back at the newlyweds to say my goodbyes and though they didn’t say anything, I took their look to mean, “go on, Katherine, get! Go live. Go live for all of us.” That’s exactly what I did.