All the Horrible Girliness

Ready

It's been Prodigy for a long time. The old stuff: Firestarter, Smack My Bitch Up, not this pansy feel-good crap they're putting out now. If I'm going to be running, I want a throaty, British man to scream "Come play my game" at me.

I'm not built for running. I'm thick, even though now I'm not fat. Walking around my neighborhood I realize this. Why have I been lumbering around the neighborhood, pounding hard onto my knees and pelvis and feet? My body was built for long, pregnant winters.

And that, if all goes well, is what I'm in for. I look at the next eight months or so with the trepidation of one whose entire body, life and being will change.

Last time, I wasn't so lucky. Or maybe I was. The pregnancy wasn't real, they said; there was a problem that was making my body think it was pregnant. I was drugged, carted into surgery, gassed, sent home. Then I made the phone calls.

My phone calls are different now. Nobody's particularly excited this time around. Neither am I.

But for now, just in case it's the real thing this time, I'm walking. I won't jar the kid around any more than I need to. It'll be Groove Armada and Joni Mitchell on my headphones while I walk, silly techno while I spin.

Mr. Aran says he's ready to be a daddy.

posted by Samus @ 8:19 AM