At a rest stop on my way back from jail (yes, I heard that as soon as I wrote it
and no, I’m not a transient grifter[1])
and lookee here. Surprise! That’s right, Aunt Flo’s in town. The crimson wave.
Red tide. On the rag. (Yes, that last one is pretty heinous and yes, the six,
four, two men who read this
blog have now fled in abject terror).
I’m on Day 19
and I realized, that until this very moment, in a ramshackle Burger King
bathroom – where I may or may not have audibly exclaimed “FUCK!”, much to the alarm of the mother of two in the stall next
to me – I really hadn’t considered the prospect that I might find out I’m not
pregnant by like, getting my period. Why? Well, because I assumed I would, like
always, take 37 pregnancy tests and count my negatives before they hatch cry my eyes
out on my own (much cleaner) bathroom
floor. But my period? No ma’am. That never occurred to me (I am aware of my
poor intuitive reasoning skills, thank you).
Also, math. Math
plays an important role here. And while math isn’t exactly my strong suit (duh, that’s why I’m a lawyer), I feel
like “counting” is a skill I should have mastered. Because, umm, wasn’t it way-too-effing-early for this? (more on
that later).
