I spend the first two or three hours of my day on chores and good life stuff. By the time I’m done, I’m too tired to think about anything except how my sleep was shit and how the nightmare that woke me up just before 6:AM made me gasp for air. A doozie I psychoanalyze for a few minutes and then let go because time is too valuable. 

There’s never enough time in the day to climb up the stack and sit at the top with the sun on my face and a gentle breeze blowing my long strawberry blonde locks. Not even enough time to tell people how I feel: love, regret, gratitude, pride.

It’s all poetry riddled with abstraction anyhow and ain’t nobody got time for that. 

I roll back out of bed at 9 with a groan and shuffle into the bathroom to pee, strip, and weigh myself. I’m so grumpy at the result I give my scale the finger. The only logical explanation for the recent weight gain is that I’m pregnant. 

I haven’t had a period since February so I must be, right?! 

What did Spock say in that movie last night? “When you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.” 

Except the “impossible” part, it totally fits. 

But what if I’m with child – some alien baby or a baby Jesus like Mary had. If you believe in God or Extraterrestrial life, it’s not impossible. 

My next thought is that I need to get on the phone right away with my OB cuz I’m seriously advanced maternal age and this baby is totally at risk. I also wonder briefly about the media and all the ways this earth shattering news could be used. Should I go into hiding to protect my unborn miracle? 

Naw… I really want to see this overshadow the T Swift headline of the day for a hot second. Maybe try to monetize the experience to put this beautiful little bundle of joy through college. 

That’s right folks. This Rolodex of thoughts cycles through every morning when I step on the scale. Then I vow to myself to cut out that morning coffee, all cream and sugar, and also all the soda and alcohol.

“Just until the weight comes back off.” Good gravy five pounds in one week. 

Then I say out loud to no one. “Fuck THAT!” What’s the point of living if you can’t enjoy the ride? Plus, I might die without that coffee. 

Shortly after undoing my freshly made vows like zipping out of a dress, I put on my exercise clothes and head to the elliptical machine. As I make my way through the castle I have to stop and feed fish, scoop litter boxes, load or unload the dishwasher, and find my shoes. A half hour later, I’m in the the exercise room. 

Another half an hour later, I’ve written these 481 words. A bunch of nonsense nobody is going to care about. Maybe one person will wonder about my nightmare – the assisted living facility, my mom, the workers out the window with ladders doing something to the roof, and the fish tank that I was reaching into to grab some debris before it contaminated the water. The water. 

The water is pulling me under with its immense gravitational force. I have one hand braced on the edge of the tank and am staring down at nine goldfish swirling past my other arm. I’m using all my strength to simultaneously reach the debris and keep myself above the surface. The water. I can breathe and then I can’t. I turn my face to the side to get a breath and then back down again, a little deeper. The water — its pull is too strong and my stabilizing arm starts to quiver. I just can’t. 

The water. And the realization that I’m going to drown. Again. 

Gasp…. Awake. 

Then what? Begin again I guess. What else can I do? 

Thanks for reading.

Peace and all that, 
~Miss SugarCookie