(I told Sugar I’d post something so her deer necklace would come off the top of the blog and people would go easy on agreeing with me about it. Heh. She should be grateful: now my loyalty has been aroused and I love the damn thing — I never thought it was hideous, just a little unbearably hipster-ish. Which it is.)
I have never felt less pregnant in my life. Even when there was no sperm at all in me, I felt more pregnant than this. My knees don’t even feel pregnant. True, I have no way of knowing for sure that I’m not, yet — it’s only 8dpo — but the whole idea seems laughable. In a bitter-laugh kind of way.
In a sense, this is easier than feeling hopeful, as I have in previous cycles. Much less up and down of the ol’ emotions when they just stay obediently down. Sure, I still get weepy, but at least I’m not coming down from feeling giddy and warm.
It does make my few tangible concessions to the whole “PUPO” fantasy — not drinking, not taking any real painkillers, not having (very much) caffeine — seem insane, though. Like I am playing some mad game. Like I am pretending my handbag is a kitty-cat and no one knows whether I know it isn’t.