Twenty-Three Weeks

Time is zooming by. I'm really not sure where last week went, and I think I might need a weekend to recover from the weekend.

On Saturday, Rob and I had our first night out in several months. We saw the opening performance of Damn Yankees at the 5th Avenue Theater. I thought the phenomenal sets upstaged the actors, but we had fun.

And we stayed out very, very, very, very late. In other words, too late.

More than ever, I notice a huge difference in how I feel the next day (or next few days) when I don't get enough sleep, don't drink enough water, miss a workout, or otherwise slack on my healthy habits. Getting back on the wagon is hard as ever. As much as I believe pregnancy can be a time of strength and wellness, and not a disaster waiting to happen, I've still absorbed some of the pressure to treat myself as delicate. Never mind, of course, that 45 minutes of (light) weightlifting actually means more rest in the long run than 45 minutes of sitting around!

Still, Waaah! I don't waaant to. I don't haaave to. I'm pregggnant!

My sitting-around time has been devoted almost entirely to reading. I spent the weekend immersed in Peggy Orenstein's book Cinderella Ate My Daughter: Dispatches from the Frontlines of the New Girlie-Girl Culture. (So naturally, I'm wearing my pinkest ensemble today.) It's always both incredibly satisfying and deeply terrifying to read an intelligent, insightful report about why things I've always found vaguely creepy really are creepy.

I finished the book and handed it straight to Rob. "Your turn."

* * *

I probably shouldn't be reading rage-stoking materials right now. My primary symptom (apart from the giant midsection) seems to be general hatred of everyone and everything. More than once I've snapped at Rob for having the nerve to not know where something is in the kitchen. I wanted to punch the man in front of me in line for wearing too much cologne, and then the cashier would not stop making small talk. Even something as innocuous as the Curious George animated TV series, which Westley adores, makes me want to scream. I fantasize daily about strangling that whiny little cartoon monkey. And don't get me started on actual preschoolers.

Not my own preschooler, of course. Westley has been lovely this past week—except for yesterday afternoon when he decided he needed to cry about everything he hadn't cried about during the past year, and NOTHING Rob or I said or did was going to help him. My desire to hibernate with a stack of magazines, a pair of noise-canceling headphones, and a green tea Frappuccino the size of my head was astounding.

I try to give myself the benefit of the doubt—it's hard to be cheerful when even your biggest underwear is too tight and you have to wake up every time you want to roll over in bed—but I resent the idea that pregnancy is turning me into a bitch.

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