I slept all weekend.
No, really. ALL WEEKEND, I SLEPT. And I wasn't even drinking. Nor am I sick.
I am, however, hoping that I'm pregnant.
It's way too early for symptoms, right? Except I remember that last time, I was exhausted. Inexplicably exhausted. Wake-up-at-noon-nap-time-at-1:30-laziest-dogs-on-earth-think-I-must-be-dying-or-something-bed-time-by-7:00 exhausted.
That's the same exhaustion that hit me on the head Saturday, so the OMGIWANTTOBEKNOCKEDUP part of me thinks that I must be pregnant, and maybe it takes a hell of a lot of energy to...allow an egg to embed itself in my uterine wall? Help the little egg divide cells like it's going out of style?
CONVINCE MYSELF I'M PREGNANT INSTEAD OF REMAINING (reasonably) HOPEFUL AND INDIFFERENT?
Yeah, that's the most likely.
Even though I may be jumping the gun, I can tell you that the men on the field made a valiant effort, it should be good, the pieces are in place, I cannot believe I'm agreeing to procreate with a man who never stops quoting Brett Farve (even in the off-season) and I cannot believe I've turned into the woman who quotes him right back.
If we're not pregnant, then it was a hell of a try, and I'll be taking consolation gifts in the form of 1.75L vodka and some Swisher Sweets. There will be approximately 2 weeks in between Sad Face pregnancy test and the recommencement of Operation: Baby. Why not console myself with a little liquid happiness?
But if we ARE pregnant...have a drink for me, wouldja?
(Christ, now I have to wait two weeks to find out how this story begins. Please, please please - let me begin vomiting uncontrollably before then. I cannot take the suspense.)