It's All Fun and Games 'Till Someone Gets Pregnant.

I fainted at Jazzercise last night.

My friend Nicole came with me after way less convincing than I’d expected. I wasn’t even half way through my sales pitch before it was booked on her calendar.  Within five minutes of the class commencing she’d memorized and mastered ALL the moves. I’ve been going for weeks and still end up just spinning in circles most of the time 'cause I find the routine’s too tricky.  “Ten years of dance class really pays off!!!” she shouted excitedly in between her hop-skip double chasse. Her spirit fingers intimidated me. The instructor later called to tell her she had a promising future in Jazzercise and would she consider becoming an instructor. Bitch.

When I blacked out Nicole put her career calling on hold for a minute and came running to my rescue: “Erin, are you pregnant??? Oh my god I think you are. You totally are.  You’re for sure pregnant!”

I put my head back: “Fuck.”

Not because I’m not ready, but because …I’m not ready.

There's lots of thing about being a parent I don't have figured out yet. My primary concern:  I only listen to murder rap and Mariah Carey; that’s not healthy for anyone. Also, I don’t do laundry, I can’t cook, and I’m super lazy. And I’m not going to stop swearing. EVER!!
I can’t, I like it too much. There haven’t been any other words invented yet that even come close to being an appropriate substitute. What word better describes your stingy aunt on the wealthy side who gives you slipper socks every Christmas then Cunt? None. It’s too good, and I won’t let it go to waste. Think how rewarding it will be when your kid tells their teacher to “fuck off, I’m not done with nap time yet.” My feeling of pride will far outweigh my willingness to discipline.

Plus I was planning on remaining unpregnant for least a little while longer for the simple reason that everyone I know is literally pooping out babies. Who jacked off in the city water and knocked up the entire metro area? Good thing I only drink Vodka.

Which led me to my next thought: If I was pregnant, then I better get a blood transfusion in the next three minutes because I’d been boozing a lot this past week. A LOT.  I told god if he got me out of this jazzercise nightmare alive I would start a 90 day detox immediately.

I opened my eyes to four fussing, gray haired bitties shoving glucose tablets and tootsie pops in my mouth. “Oh geeeeeeez, goodness gracious, you really have pushed it too hard. Look at her Betty, her face is grey!” 

I watched as a 99 year old traded up for heavier hand weights. 

I put a cold cloth on my head, closed my eyes and tried to remember what Sex Ed had taught me about my eggs dropping...fallopian tubes...boners...menstrual cycles....math.
I stopped there. I'm bad at math. I'm bad a a lot of things. Which also reminded me - I'm short, really short. So if I am, in fact with child, I am going to look like a pregnant toddler. This is all happening too soon!! I’d been holding out for my final growth spurt.
They're all gonna call me Garry Coleman.
I felt dizzy again. 

That's another thing, I screamed to myself as I put my head between my legs, I’m still not black! It’s all I’ve ever wanted!! Thanks for nothing god, I take back my previous detox promise. And fuck Jazzercise.  

Later that night Sandy, the instructor, called. I had just finished eating an entire pizza and was feeling better, and a lot less short.

“I just wanted to make sure you weren’t embarrassed about what happened, because I’d love to have you back in class.”

“Oh it takes a lot more than that for me to get embarrassed. I threw up inside someone’s mouth once,” I said.

“You know, that’s exactly what your friend Nicole also said.”