Today I was going to give you, dear readers, a break. I was going to complain about something different from smells and food—say, the downfall of true investigative reporting—but then this happened: I went to a bakery to work while the sitter watched the baby (the one ex-utero) and gradually as I sat there minding my own, a horrid, rancid, oniony stank infused my clothing and hair and skin. Once I realized what was happening, I left, but the damage had been done. Added to yesterday’s list of smells that make me lose my shit is: Me. My entire self.
I hope you’ll forgive me as I spend my last hour of freedom not writing but showering AGAIN, washing my hair AGAIN, and burning my outfit. Pregnancy sucks. It takes, like, every ounce of energy just to take care of the basics—to get through the day alive and adequately fed and watered and clothed. I barely have energy to shower once—forget TWICE.
What kind of bakery serves rancid onions, anyway?
On the upside, there is the high chance of all this low-brow, low-grade, but nonetheless borderline debilitating suffering leading to a baby in 30 or so weeks. Possibly I'll even get another cute one.
In the meantime, Happy Rosh Hashanah. A time for joy and introspection and new beginnings and the eating of apples dipped in honey. (Or so I'm told.) Shana Tova!
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