No matter how much I eat, I cannot seem to get full. Granola, toast, homemade blueberry muffins, leftover Valentine’s Day dinner Thai food, a ginger cookie, some caramel-covered chocolate macadamia nuts—and still hungry!
Also, I’m the teeniest bit queasy.
And am having to pee all the time.
But that’s only a sign of late pregnancy, right? Not a brand-new one?
“I hope I’m not pregnant,” I said to Dr. Fiancé as I poured Jack Daniels into my second Coke of the evening, a chaser for the pasta-and-chicken-and-spinach dinner my dear chef-of-a-fiancé whipped up for dinner—and a non-prescription attempt to keep myself from blowing up at my dear travel-agent-of-a-fiancé after he revealed that my six hours of research for an upcoming trip to Miami were for naught because the trip wasn’t meant to be a “sit around by the pool” sort of a deal but “an adventure,” a phrase I have learned means “we’re not spending more than $100 a night for lodging so we can save up money to take more trips on which we won’t spend more than $100 a night on lodging.”
“You want to be pregnant,” he reminded me, not glancing up from the newspaper.
“Not yet. Not quite. Not if it means being super-hungry and feeling like I have a UTI for nine months and not fitting into my wedding dress.” I shook my head vigorously, no. “Do they even allow pregnant people on South Beach or in the fancy hotels we’re going to sneak into to use their pools?”
Dr. Fiancé, who has known me for a while now kept his eyes trained on the paper, not saying a word.