Knocked Up: Confessions of a Modern Mother-To-Be Tapa blanda - 2004

Extracto

The First Trimester

(a.k.a. The Longest Three Months of My Life)


Sunday, January 26

6:45 a.m.
OH SHIT!

Did I . . . did we . . . did he . . . in me?

6:46 a.m.
I’m awake, right? I’m conscious, right? I don’t feel like myself. Something has changed.

6:47 a.m.
OH MY GOD! The elastic waistband of these boxer shorts can’t already be tighter. This cannot be happening. To me. Of all people. Oh God . . . I just felt something moving.

6:59 a.m.
Oh God, I HAVE THE FEAR!

I can’t believe that I . . . that we . . . that he . . . in me.

We did, right?

SHIT!

7:00 a.m.
It’s way too early to be so awake on a Sunday. I’m going to sneak out of bed and quietly go to the kitchen and reheat what’s left of yesterday’s midafternoon Starbucks non-fat vanilla latte in the microwave. I need caffeine. There’s no way I can fall back to sleep now. I need to make the Fear Phone Call right away. I desperately need to talk to Lena. But the fiancé is still sleeping, or pretending to still be asleep. How can he possibly be sleeping at a time like this? Man, it must be nice to be a man. Men can sleep through anything. It’s freaking annoying. I can’t let the fiancé know that I’m f-r-e-a-k-i-n-g out. The fiancé can’t – under any circumstances – overhear the Fear Conversation I need to have with Lena, as soon as possible. I mean immediately. If the fiancé knew what Lena and I really talk about, he would never want anything to do with me – or any other woman – ever again. There is already a good chance that the fiancé already wants nothing to do with me after last night, and I’ve probably turned him off women forever.

If I were a good person, I would go out and buy the fiancé bagels or something. I am a bad, bad person. Even if the fiancé wasn’t here, it’s too early to call Lena anyway. When I last remember seeing her, it was two in the morning and she was breakdancing on the dance floor, thrusting her pelvis up toward the ceiling. She didn’t look bad either, considering she was a thirty-eight-year-old drunken white girl dancing to Eminem. She, too, will have The Fear this morning and will be sleeping off her hangover until at least noon. Which is what I’d be doing too if The Fear wasn’t so devastating and hadn’t woken me up like a slap in the face so freaking early. I think I’m hyperventilating.

Did I . . . did we . . . did he . . . in me?
Shit, shit, shit . . .


The Fear is what happens when vague memories of drunken stupidity instantly become clear as crystal. The only thing to do when the sheer terror of The Fear hits is to go back to bed, bury your head under the comforter, and never, ever leave your house again. Either that or make the Fear Call to your closest girlfriend to try to piece together the puzzle of fogginess by detailing what little you both can remember from the previous night. You can really only stay in bed for so long, no matter how mortified you are.

The Fear Phone Call, the morning after a night of way too much drinking, can last hours. The Fear Phone Call always, always begins with “Oh God, I have The Fear” and carries on with much laughter, gossip, and good-natured (and a lot of not-so-good-natured) bitchiness. It always ends with promises to “never, ever drink that much again.”

If this was a typical morning after with The Fear and the fiancé wasn’t asleep – or pretending to still be asleep – in the next room, I would tell Lena how I flirted with my boss, that one of my married colleagues came up behind me, wrapped his arms around my waist, and whispered in my ear, “Just because you’re engaged now doesn’t mean we can’t get together, right?” I would tell Lena how I think I remember yelling at a drunken, sloppy guest for spilling her entire drink down the back of my $900 dress so that the material clung to my skin, like a bad date you’re trying to lose in a crowd. Or was that me who spilled my drink? In any case, all of that did happen at the party last night. But all of that seems kind of innocuous, considering what happened after the fiancé and I somehow managed to make it back to my apartment. How did we get back?

Did I . . . did we . . . did he . . . in me?

Lena would tell me how she kissed a man whose name she never knew, and that she doesn’t remember how or what time she got home – which is always what happens when Lena drinks too much. We’d laugh until we wept, and we’d groan about our foolishness until our stomachs hurt. We’d reassure each other that what happened in our intoxicated state wasn’t so bad. Surely everyone else was too drunk to even notice our bad behaviour. Truth is, I look forward to the Fear Phone Call. Actually, I adore the Fear Phone Call. Because if you’ve made the Fear Phone Call, it usually means you’ve had an incredible night. The longer the Fear Phone Call lasts, the better and more memorable the night.

But this is not a typical morning with The Fear. I have super freakin’ crazy fear. I got into bed last night drunk on alcohol and high on exhilaration, snuggling in with my drunken fiancé, thinking how wonderful my life will be with this man, how much I love him, and how lucky I am that he loves me. I didn’t even brush my teeth before pulling him down on top of me. Now I’m anxious and guilt-ridden and sober as a nun. There’s a good chance the fiancé will dump me after what happened, after what I begged him to do. It was entirely my fault. Sort of.

The fiancé and I celebrated our engagement last night at a party we threw for 150 of our closest friends. The party was also my fault. Everything that happens in a relationship can be blamed on someone, after all. It was my “brilliant idea” to celebrate our engagement. What was I thinking?