Phantom Pregnancy: A Tale of Woe

Last week, apropos of absolutely nothing relevant (except choice of birth control. So I guess that's kinda relevant) my sister asked me if I were pregnant. Or rather, she shouted excitedly "Are you pregnant!"

The answer was--and remains--an emphatic NO. I am not pregnant. (Hear that, Hannah? NOT PREGNANT.) But the conversation seems to have infected me with the symptoms of early pregnancy. This has happened before.

This weekend, it started when we stopped to pick up a loaf of pepperoni bread for lunch (Boy and Girl and Guy and I were going hiking). Guy came in from the bakery, dropped the freshly-baked, still-warm loaf on my lap, and I suddenly had to hurl.

Bread! It is the strongest smelling thing on earth! And I was trapped in a car with it! I made like a dog and rolled down my window to hang my head out--which in the narrow streets of Jersey City risks decaptitation. I didn't have any bread for lunch.

By the end of the day, I was exhausted and crying at any little thing that went wrong. Guy beat me at cribbage! Is so unfair!

And after a bad night's sleep, I woke up to freshly-risen bread dough, and Guy, on his way out the door, instructed me over his shoulder to place it in the oven.

Ahem. Baking bread smell permeating my entire house. I stuck my head out the window.

One would HOPE that Guy will be more supportive when I really am pregnant. I guess phantom fetuses don't deserve the consideration that real ones do.

Making fresh bread. The nerve.