One Line Means NO

It doesn't matter at all that I already knew the answer was no; it makes no difference whatsoever that I have a full military installment complete with camouflage suits and nonoxynol-9 laced grenades and barbed-wire fences and little interest at all in the Geneva Convention stationed at my cervix. It's guerrilla warfare they're waging, keeping my borders safe. No sir-ee; you watch me sit for over a week with chemotherapy nausea, and you will watch me totally convince myself that I am pregnant.

I have a routine for this sort of thing:

• Suspect that I am pregnant


• Sit for a few weeks in complete denial (while throwing up and watching my boobs apply for their own time zones)


• Get a test at closest market in the middle of the night


• Take test in closest bathroom (I took 1of3's in the bathroom of a Ruby Tuesday's; home was just too far {a whole MILE away} to wait)


• Confirm suspicions


• Smoke a pack of cigarettes right then and there


• Quit smoking, but pretend to keep smoking to remove any suspicions from home


• Freak the fuck out for several days/weeks/months


• Tell Josh right about the time I'm starting to show

This time I thought I'd do it a little differently. I told Josh I was worried, to which he said, "Hmmm", and I made him go buy me a test. That's more fun than sending them off for tampons, I tell ya. And, of course, I'm not.

And I'm out $15 bucks.

And, of course, I am totally convinced that I have a tapeworm or something. Seriously, I never get nauseous.

And surprisingly enough, even though I know it would be the single dumbest thing I may ever have done in my life, I am slightly disappointed. Why, I will never know. I just am.