Pregnant pause |

Pregnant pause

They say that pregnancy is contagious, but this is ridiculous.

But that’s the end of the world, I mean end of the story, so let me start at the beginning.

Just last summer, my friend Ashley and I stumbled down Swami’s beach north of San Diego clutching each other like two old ladies, mascara running down our sunburned faces. (No, I don’t normally wear make up to the beach. We were at a wedding, silly). The tears came from a combination of sobbing and hysterical laughter, but it was impossible, even for us, to tell which was which.

“Oh-my-GOD,” she gasped, her Texas accent lending heightened drama to every other word. Her skinny arms flailed wildly about, Kleenex clutched tightly in one hand. “Did you HEAR what he SAID to her? Did you? Did you hear him tell her – in front of EVERYONE, like GOD and the whole world – how much he loves her?”

“Yes, I did,” I replied, somewhat surprised that I had suddenly acquired a Texas accent as well.

“No one is EVER going to love me like that,” she said, doubled over, arms wrapped tight around her tiny middle like her heart might fall out and land in the sand. “I am such a bitch!”

“Me, too!” I screamed. “Let’s go have another drink!”

Ten rum and Cokes later (five each), she made out with some stupid guy and climbed a tree while I danced barefoot with a plastic lei wrapped around my head.

I found great comfort in our shared misery, especially considering she is one of the hottest chicks I know. If she couldn’t find a decent guy to fall madly in love with, then no one could. She’s that girl you would love to hate if only she weren’t so charming and funny, a surfer with long, sun-bleached hair and hazel-green eyes and cheerleader-cute dimples and a ripped, petite body with not one single ounce of fat.

Ashley and I hung out a month ago in So Cal after we found out our friend Cara was pregnant and moving to England. (See, I am finally getting to the point.) We went out for brunch to console one another after losing yet another friend who abandoned us to run off with the man of their dreams. (The nerve!)

I expected Ashley and I would have another good session of “No one love us! We are going to die alone! We are going to end up two haggard old bitches with canes who throw empty beer cans at passers-by!” Or maybe we’d just rant and rave, “Have a nice life, Cara! Can’t wait to meet your future husband and the father of your child next time I make that quick trip over to England!”

But rather than sit around and feel sorry for ourselves, I suggested we look to the bright side and plan a trip to England together since Pregnant Friend can no longer party with us.

“So, should we go to Paris afterward? And then maybe do some surfing in Biarritz?” I said, growing more excited about our plans by the minute. See, not being pregnant is fun.

“I don’t know,” she said, followed by a painfully long pause. Oh, no. Oh god. Could it be? A pregnant pause?

“I have something to tell you – I’m pregnant too!” she said, sounding all excited and whatnot.

She went on about some artist guy, he’s the one, blah, blah, blah, moving to Costa Rica to start up an organic surf retreat, blah, blah, blah.

“That’s great! I’m so happy for you!” I said, doing my best to mean it. That didn’t work, so I crawled under the table and cried instead.

“If you’re so happy for me, then why are you CRYING?” she asked incredulously.

“I’m not.” Sniffle, sniffle.

“Yes, yes, you are.”

I collected myself and pulled my head out from under the table, wiped my eyes and tried to make reassuring eye contact with her, but I couldn’t. So I sat under the table and did my best to continue our conversation from there until the bill came. In the past three months, the floodgates have opened and all my friends are dropping like flies, one after the other, knocked up, bun in the oven, PG, preg-o-rama. Phone calls and e-mails pour in with the oh-so-exciting news. They leave like 20 messages, always insisting to talk to me in person, “I have something to telllll youuu,” they gush. “Call me baaack as soon as you caaaan, it’s really impooorrtant!”

Thank god I still have normal girlfriends in Aspen, perfectly happy adults who understand how important it is to put yourself first so you can always do whatever the hell you want. The only messages I’m getting from my girlfriends around here is the usual:

“Hey, it’s me. Wanna go to McStorklies later?”

The Princess is having a nervous breakdown and needs Dad to refill her Xanax prescription at Carl’s Pharmacy. Fellow spinsters can e-mail her at

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