I am a participant in Blog 365 and x365.

I was late, I was afraid, and I took a test. I was dating the man who would later be my ex-husband, and in no way was I prepared for, nor did I desire, to have his children. It was a feeling that never left, even in the years we were married. And when we finally split, child-free, I rarely wondered if it had been the right decision not to have children. When we were together, the thought of children turned my stomach. All of my friends were having kids, yet the idea of having them for myself? No thank you!

After I split with my ex, I realized that it wasn’t that I was completely closed off to the idea of kids; it was the idea of having kids with HIM. To this day I have doubts whether or not I will ever be a mother, but I do know that my desire to have children was not so strong that I would have been willing to have them with him. Harsh, maybe. But the truth? Absolutely.

It is here in our story where God or some unnamed Jokester Supreme Being decreed that it should be so that this month, two months after coming off of a 13 year-long almost uninterrupted run of being on The Pill, that my period should be late. And that in the three weeks leading up to this lateness, I should feel. Like. Ass. Ass in ways I have never felt before. Assy enough for me to Google every possible symptom, even signing up for an account on a baby mama web community site, wondering if this is actually fucking happening.

For three weeks, The Jokester looked down on all of this and was amused. Me freaking out and wondering every day, is it too early to take a test? Me, second-guessing every decision I made in the last month. Should I have eaten that donut? I drank a few beers…will my unborn child have two heads? Should I have stood in front of the microwave while heating up my tea? If I wasn’t focused on these things, I was fretting every other thing one must consider when it seems a possibility that one could be bringing a child into the world. How’s the boyfriend going to feel about this? I spent days imagining the two of us, walking through Wal-mart, the entire eyes of Houghton County upon us. Former local rockstar knocks up unemployed Asian chick. It would be enough to make front page news. Not to mention that children hasn’t exactly been an item on our recent relationship agenda.

For whatever reason, The Jokester got tired of the game and decided to end it. And I found myself lamenting the thing that probably never was in the first place. The symptoms I thought were pregnancy were most likely gas from a bad burrito. And for the last few days, I have been inconsolable.

Last time this happened? I took a test. It was negative. The relief was accompanied by a brief moment of sadness, a unexplained feeling of loss. I started my period the next day, and life went on. And this time? No relief, only sadness. Disappointment. What should have felt like a giant weight being lifted off my shoulders was instead a feeling like someone had reached inside me and gutted me, laughing while he did it. Only a week late and you thought you were pregnant? You FOOL.

I don’t understand how I can feel such loss for something that (most likely) never existed. Maybe it was that in my gut I felt something that I couldn’t explain. Something that told me, THIS IS HAPPENING, and it is this feeling that prevented me from testing for certainty. It was if I felt I KNEW what the result would be, but I wasn’t ready to handle a full-blown confirmation. In my tendency for paranoia and jumping to conclusions long before they should be jumped to, I spent a lot of time processing this possibility, and in the end, I had finally gained peace about it. I knitted baby booties, joking that I was engaging in Operation Reverse Psychology On My Uterus, but inside I felt that one day down the road, I’d be pulling out the booties, thinking you had a feeling and you were right.

Turns out it’s Mission Accomplished; the joke’s on me. To quote one of my favorite writers, life goes on, I think.

I am a participant in Blog 365 and x365.

The other sign? Abby, my youngest Bichon Frisé puppy, walked into the water near shore today, wading out up to her chest ON HER OWN. And she didn’t melt, which is what I think Newman, the elder puppy, thinks will happen if he so much as gets sprayed with the tiniest bit of water.

We had the chance to spend three days out at our friend’s waterfront home, enjoying the warm weather, cool water, and food, not to mention the beer. This will not be a post where I pat myself on the back for sticking to my Un-Diet all weekend, though I was pretty good during the other days of the week.

One of these days, I hope to be a freaking awesome skier like Liz. Until then, I will take photos from the boat while trying not to be propelled into the water upon sudden stops. Have you ever tried to take photos in a boat going 25mph over choppy waves? We then took a long ride out to Dreamland; what was supposed to be a 40 minute ride lasted two hours, the waves were so big in the canal. By the end of the ride, I was picking my boobs up off the floor of the boat. Okay, maybe not, but bra support in current swimsuit = FAIL.

The rest of the pictures are here.

I am a participant in Blog 365 and x365.

I am a participant in Blog 365 and x365.

I am a participant in Blog 365 and x365.

I am a participant in Blog 365 and x365.

I am a participant in Blog 365 and x365.

Take yesterday at the grocery store, for example. I’m rolling my way through the produce section, picking out vegetables for that night’s Pasta Primavera. Nothing crazy, mind you. Just some beans, asparagus, onion, etc. On my way over to the garlic a strange man practically yells across the bananas, “Are you from BURMA?”

Startled, I whipped my head around, met the dude’s eyes and flatly said, “No.” But what I really wanted to say, had he not totally caught me off guard is, Why the hell do you think it’s any of your business where I’m from? Do I have a sign on my back that says, ASK ME WHERE I’M FROM, BECAUSE IT’S SOME FUCKING EXOTIC PLACE OUTSIDE OF THE U.P.?

Why do you assume, simply because I’m not white, that I’m not from around here? Because if I told you where I’m from — which is Detroit, by the way –that isn’t really the answer that you’re looking for. Because you want to me to confirm what you’re guessing, be that China, Japan, Korea, Thailand, or as you so asininely put it, BURMA. You’re hoping that I’m from the same little town where you served during the [FILL IN THE BLANK] War, or you’ve got some fetish about Asian chicks who grocery shop. Whatever your reason may be, pay attention: I. DON’T. CARE. Stop thinking that you can ask personal questions to people you don’t know, just because for some reason you think us minorities are just dying to satisfy your curiosity.

Of course, I’m used to people like you asking me this question, and while I’ve mostly tolerated it by not responding with a Fuck You, it’s getting pretty old. Maybe it’s from years of being taunted by other kids as they stretched their eyes out into slits with their fingers, singing ching chang chong or whatever stupid thing they heard on TV. Maybe it’s from all of the times people have asked me if I know karate. You have no idea how badly I wanted to learn, just so that I could kick the ass of the next person who asked me that very question. Maybe it’s because all this time I haven’t needed people like you to remind me that I’m different, but you still feel like you have an obligation to publicly point these things out, be it by yelling to me from a moving vehicle that “I should go back to China where I came from,” (which isn’t where I’m from, but you wouldn’t know that, you ignorant douchebag).

Sorry, perhaps I’m being overly sensitive. I haven’t eaten today, after all. Speaking of food, you’d better lock your cats and dogs up at night, because you know us Oriental people eat that shit UP.