About once every six weeks I become convinced beyond any shadow of a doubt that I am pregnant.
It’s like a lunar cycle – only longer and more stressful.
I realised I had a problem the other day when I was at the hairdresser having some regrowth issues dealt with when I inexplicably started panicking that I had begun to ‘regrowth’ internally.
Perhaps it was all the peroxide and hairspray, but I went into an absolute tailspin.
I bolted out the salon as soon as I could extricate myself from the clutches of gushy stylists wearing leather pants and into the nearest discount chemist warehouse.
I purchased (another) bulk packet of First Response kits and then legged it to the car.
On the way home I realised to my horror that I had promised my Man Candy I’d get his car detailed. I pull in to Flufferz, cursing my wifely duties, just about in early faux labour from the stress, throw my keys at the bewildered man serving me and run around the back to the toilets.
The ladies toilet was in use (come on!) so I was forced into the abyss that is The Public Disabled Toilet (PDT). I don’t know what goes in those places, but they all smell the same.
But such was the level of my iFOP that I pushed aside my revulsion at the stench, the suspiciously wet floor and the rubbish and went about discovering if I was able to eat soft cheese that night.
After an excruciating 60 seconds, First Response assured me I could rock all the double brie in France. But I did another test just to be sure.
I aged about a decade over the course of that afternoon, but it was a small price to pay to not have to worry about stretch marks.
iFOP – the new adrenaline sport.
This post is dedicated (with apologies) to O, A & R…