Being a woman is tough. Not only are we underpaid, overworked, objectified, stifled and otherwise made to feel like pieces of shit on a daily basis, we also are responsible for propagating the species. As such, our minds and bodies are never totally in sync. Even if the thought of reproducing makes us want to wretch, sometimes our uteri have other plans. There's a reason they're called "pregnancy scares." Women live in constant fear of being knocked up.
Even if you've been very careful, warning bells start to go off every time something in your body is out of wack. Tender breasts? You're up the duff. Fatigue? Absolutely preggo. Heartburn? Even if you ate Taco Bell that day, you can convince yourself that it's the result of a burrowing embryo. You assume the condom broke and you never noticed, or there was a pinprick you somehow overlooked. You rehash the day you took your birth control two hours late. You gasp in horror as you remember the moment you accidentally put on semen-stained underwear. You annoy the crap out of yourself with your obsessive thinking. The only time you're ever free of your neuroses is menopause (I've got about 25 years to go), or a month you don't have sex - which, if you're me, is non-existent. I think I've only gone intercourse-free for two menstrual cycles in eight years.
I remember having my first fertilization fright at the tender age of 16. I had unprotected sex with a much older man (brilliant, I know), and I remember my paranoia intensifying as my period remained in absentia for over a week. How was I going to explain this to my parents? Hadn't I learned my lesson from taking home that fake baby that cries in the middle of the night? The only thing I was able to glean from that experiment was that I could probably lie down next to a foghorn and sleep soundly. I'm immune to obnoxious baby cries! I don't know how to change a diaper! I'd be a terrible mother! I have to get an abortion! I don't have any money! My dad will cry because I'm a failure!
Of course, all this worry was for naught. I got my period. I made it through high school and college and a myriad of sex partners without a single positive pregnancy test. Now, I'm on a precipice. After two weeks of waiting patiently for my tardy menses, I'm preparing to take a test to confirm or deny the existence of a bun in the oven. Despite the fact that I have decent health insurance and a supportive spouse, I am freaking out.
Now that I'm married, everyone says it's not a big deal. I disagree. It's not an occasion to celebrate. It's not a blessing in disguise. It's a pain in the ass. Just because I actually intend on spending the rest of my life with the person who potentially impregnated me doesn't mean I'm thrilled about gestating. My husband is currently unemployed and my car doesn't even have air conditioning. I can't be responsible for another human being. My ovaries should know better.
Can't guess? It's the international symbol for a worst nightmare.
If I am pregnant, I know what I will do. I have the money to deal with it. It still doesn't allay the anxiety. Even women I know who already have children still get nervous whenever that time of the month rolls around. It's one of those things they never tell you about womanhood, like period diarrhea and those stray hairs that you have to pluck out of your chin. Our only consolation is that moment in which we divulge to our female friends our predicament... and they know exactly how we feel. At least we all suffer together.
UPDATE: Well, I got a visit from the crimson typhoon. But it took almost eight weeks - and you better believe I'll be in full-on panic mode in another five. Welcome to womanhood.
