Week 16

At 4 months pregnant, I'm be-woeing the lost days of careless maidenhood, the days when entering a wet T-shirt contest was still a possibility. "Remember, honey, remember when I was invited by that older biker dude in Daytona during Biketoberfest to participate in the wet T-shirt contest?" It was, sadly, one of my prouder moments. I beamed, "Sure" at the guy. Then I saw Aaron's face. No man likes his wife to be in a wet T-shirt contest. "But what if it was a dance performance?" I try to justify the whole thing. It wasn't meant to be. I wasn't in a wet T-shirt contest. But Aaron's promised that as soon as we get to our Brooklyn pad with the yard, he'll spray cold water on me, hard, with the hose. It'll be doubly exciting since the landlord doesn't want us using the yard. Well, it is on the first floor of the house, where we live. And he may change his mind once he sees me in the wet T-shirt.

These days my nipples don't need stimulation to stand up. They're self-stimulated nipples.

But seriously, I will miss those crazy party days of youth, when we could drink and drug ourselves silly, wear tops without bras, without a care in the world. I have friends who still live these reckless drinking smoking lives. I used to judge them for it, but now I'm sort of envious. It'll no longer be a choice not to party for me, it'll be a necessity.

I'd better go make some chicken for dinner now. It's been defrosting on the counter all afternoon.