A Bump in the Road

by Maureen Lipinski

  “It’s who she is. You guys are different people.” I shrugged.

  “Well, I still can’t get over how rude she acted at your bachelorette party. It was your party and she was off making out with a disgusting man. It was so disrespectful.”

  I shrugged again. I had zero desire to defend Julie’s decisions to Reese or explain Reese’s life choices to Julie for the umpteenth time. The bachelorette party was the official Declaration of War between Reese and Julie, and I was remaining Switzerland.

  “So, how’s Matt?” I asked her casually.

  “Fine.” She shrugged as the light left her face.

  “Everything OK with you two?” I said.

  “Fine. Great. Good. All of the above,” she said, and looked down at Grace.

  “Are you sure? You sound—”

  “So, married gal, when are you going to have some little ones running around?” she interrupted.

  It is so typical of Reese to ask a loaded question to divert attention away from whatever she doesn’t want to talk about. I played along and answered her with my prepared response: “In our thirties, but every time you ask, it’s another year.”

  “Seriously? No way, you should have some sooner. You guys would be great parents.”

  I just smiled back at her and shook my head.

  “Although, it is a huge lifestyle change. Do you know that you can’t have sex for six weeks after giving birth? And you remember how horrible it was when I had that infected milk duct a few months back—talk about pain!”

  Why, why do new parents always try to convince me to have children and then proceed to tell me every disgusting, painful, grotesque story about actually having children? It’s like saying, “You guys should really take a vacation to Thailand! Just be careful of the biting flies, unclean tap water, and child prostitution. Oh, and try not to get sold into white slavery while you’re there.”

  “Although that sounds like a winning endorsement, I’ll pass. At least for a while.”

  “Why not sooner?” She continued to push.

  This is when I should’ve said, “We’re just not ready.” Instead, I said, “We figure we should wait to have kids until they don’t completely annoy us.” Which is a valid statement, but probably not a good one to make to someone holding their own child.

  I immediately clapped my hand over my mouth and apologized profusely and tried to explain that yes, kids annoy us (Li’l Mikey comes to mind) but that Jake and I love Grace and think she’s the best baby ever, etc. She laughed it off, but didn’t seem too happy with me after my brilliant comment. She quickly served lunch, I think in an effort to boot me out the door.

  Even though I apologized and even though Reese knows I often say things without consulting my brain first, I still feel horrible. Not only because I hurt her feelings, but because today is just another example of the wide chasm between our lives these days.

  I think I just need to kidnap her and get her completely drunk. Yes. A bar-hopping night where we can all forget about babies, pregnancy, and diapers.

  Friday, April 27

  I still feel guilty about the way things went with Reese yesterday, and Jake offered no help. His advice was, “Everything will be OK.” I stared at him, waiting for more words of wisdom, and after five minutes he turned back to me and said, “Was I supposed to say something else?”

  Men are so worthless when it comes to giving advice. They don’t realize women just don’t brush off conflicts with a six-pack. I think I’m going to send Reese some flowers thanking her for lunch. It will hopefully smooth things over.

  Thursday, May 3

  The flowers had the desired effect with Reese. She laughed off my comment again and thanked me. When I tried to ask her about Matt, she said she heard Grace crying and hung up the phone. I give up.

  Rather than get depressed about Reese, I’m going to focus on this weekend. My shopping trip with Julie is finally here and I plan on staying in tonight so as not to be tired for the very important money-spending extravaganza. I plan on waking up feeling refreshed and looking fabulous (i.e., skin all glowy and not at all pasty and white, hair smelling like apples rather than an ashtray). Maybe I will even wake up early and work out and get Starbucks or something.

  This is going to be just what I need.

  6:00 P.M.

  I am so proud of myself. I just got an e-mail from Jake’s cousin Carrie, his only normal relative, inviting Jake and me to a martini party in the city with her and Patrick. It would be fun but I don’t even want to go. Who cares if they have five-dollar cranapple martinis and free appetizers? I have some great pasta from Trader Joe’s I can make and a new Dateline to watch tonight.

  6:30 P.M.

  I heard that bar is lame anyway.

  6:35 P.M.

  I don’t even like cranapple martinis.

  6:38 P.M.

  I don’t have anything to wear.

  6:49 P.M.

  I’m having a bad hair day.

  7:02 P.M.

  OK, we’ll go, but just one drink. We can still come home and get to bed at a reasonable hour. One drink each, which is only ten dollars, plus free appetizers. That’s like making money. I forgot Jake ate all of my pasta last week so we would have to go out and pick something up anyway, which would be more than eight dollars. So, we’ll get to socialize with Carrie and Patrick, who we haven’t seen in forever, eat dinner, and each drink a cocktail. We can still totally be in bed by eleven and wake up feeling refreshed.

  8:30 P.M.

  One and a half drinks won’t kill me. Jake’s already had three. We’ve only spent about thirty bucks. If we went out to dinner, it would’ve been at least thirty-five dollars. We’re right on track. Next I want to try some of those free appetizers.

  Oh, they have four-dollar flirtinis?

  10:04 P.M.

  Little drunk. Who cares? Early. Much fun. Still can be in bed soon and get good sleep. Drunk = OK, but wasted = no. Grabbed Carrie’s left boob. Am lesbian when drunk.

  12:17 A.M.

  Wasted. Jake hammered. Weird man keeps hitting on me but shoe broke. Think ankle is dead. Love cat. Love life. Love cranapples thing.

  Friday, May 4

  Quoth the hangover: I’m back, bitch.

  This hangover has to be the worst of my life. Much, much worse than my epic Vegas hangover. Yet it’s not the hangover that has me shaking at my desk.

  Last night: awesome.

  Today: not so much.

  This morning, I said a silent prayer before I attempted to open my eyes, thirst pains having finally gotten the best of me, but mascara had crusted to form a sort of paste that kept my eyes from opening fully. I weakly reached for the bottle of water next to me and immediately chugged it, afraid it would run out and I’d still be thirsty. As soon as my stomach felt the water, it cramped, afraid I was abusing it with more alcohol. I silently thanked God it was Saturday and I could remain in a corpselike state for the entire day, moving only to turn on a classic made-for-TV movie starring Tori Spelling. And . . .

  Fuck me.

  It’s Friday.

  I tossed my crusty strands, matted into a new-wave hairdo and reeking of a bar, into a ponytail and threw myself at my desk as quickly as I could.

  All of which wasn’t a big deal. I mean, I’m hungover, but fine.

  Until five minutes ago.

  When I opened my calendar to check on the date for the meeting with the Women’s Board ladies, and my stomach immediately dropped and my hands started shaking for a reason other than the eight million drinks I had last night. I grabbed my purse and started clawing through it before locating what I was looking for and feeling a cold sweat form.

  How did this happen? Am I hallucinating or something? How could I have missed it? Not a hair appointment or a painful family dinner, but IT. The Big One. The thing I don’t want each month but I don’t not want.

  WHY DIDN’T I GET MY PERIOD?

  I should’ve gotten it on Monday and tomorrow I’m supposed to star
t my next pill pack, which means it never came.

  I must do Internet research. I’m sure there is a logical explanation. One that doesn’t involve anything “developing.”

  11:15 A.M.

  Stress! I have been really stressed out lately with cleaning out my closet. And Butterscotch did barf on the couch the other day. Yes. I am stressed.

  11:16 A.M.

  Exercise! I totally exercised last week on the elliptical machine. Like two miles. Two miles has to be pretty hard on the body. I’m so glad I figured it out.

  1:00 P.M.

  What am I going to do? No, no I can’t think like that. I know it is a fluke. Life will go on and I’ll laugh about this with Julie next month as we sit around with bellinis telling our “I so thought I was pregnant when . . .” stories. Yes, this will all be a funny story soon. I know the way my life is supposed to go and missing a period for any reason other than stress or exercise is not what is supposed to happen.

  2:00 P.M.

  God wouldn’t do this to me. I’ve been a good person. I’ve donated to charity and given good advice to my friends and even pointed out when a sales clerk gave me the wrong change.

  8:00 P.M.

  I’m at the movies, watching an action movie Jake has been dying to see. I haven’t been able to follow it at all, considering I have bigger things to worry about than if the ugly guy is going to successfully kill the other guy. I’m not going to tell Jake. There’s nothing to tell. Due to stress or exercise, my period never came this month, so why worry him? I don’t want to freak him out over nothing. So, I’ll tell him next month when my bastard period finally shows up and I can sigh in relief. Besides, if anything was a possibility, wouldn’t I feel different? And I don’t feel anything at all, minus the rotting white fear gnawing at the pit of my stomach. And besides, birth control pills are like 100 percent effective. OK, so not 100 percent effective, but really, really fucking close. I’m always reading they’re the most effective method of birth control. If they stopped working at random times, people wouldn’t use them, would they? I take mine at the same time every day, so I’m sure it’s fine.

  Except I want to beat the shit out of the voice in my head singing, “You were on antibiotics while you were in Vegas, weren’t you? You had lots of very dirty sex while in Vegas, didn’t you? Did you really take your pill at the same exact time every day when you were in Vegas? I didn’t think so. You are an irresponsible drunk who is most likely pregnant.” I mean, what’s the chance my antibiotics affected anything? I’d say probably slimmer than the guy with the gun to his head’s chances of surviving another hour. I mean, I’ve never seen articles in Cosmo about “My birth control stopped working after a sinus infection and it could happen to you!” I bet the myth of antibiotics lessening the effectiveness of birth control pills is really just an urban legend. I will look on one of those urban myth Web sites when I get home.

  8:36 P.M.

  OK, some kid was just kidnapped and is being held for ransom. Another reason not to have children: they can be used for ransom when the entire future of our country is at stake. I mean, we could all die because of this dude’s weakness for his daughter. That is why it is not a good idea to have children.

  9:30 P.M.

  Oh gee, darn it. I think I just got my period. Man, I hate when that happens. Wouldn’t you know it, I don’t even have a tampon in my purse. I hope they have a vending machine in the bathroom.

  9:36 P.M.

  Fuck.

  1:35 A.M.

  I bet the antibiotics are the reason I missed it. They killed a bunch of bacteria in my body and I bet they killed some period stuff, too.

  Sunday, May 6

  I went shopping with Julie yesterday. I should’ve been warming up my credit cards for their ass-kicking but instead spent the morning lying in bed, trying to ignore the acid churning in my stomach.

  I kept telling myself to forget it and tell fabulous stories and have a fantastic time with Julie because when I finally do get my period, not only will I breathe a sigh of relief, I will have a wardrobe full of new clothes.

  Or something like that.

  2:00 P.M.

  I arrived at Julie’s apartment and knocked on the door. She let me in, flame red hair piled on top of her head, wearing bubble gum pink Juicy Couture sweatpants and a black bra.

  “Hey, baby! Sorry, I’m running late as usual! I got hung up at work.” She threw her arms around me and gestured for me to come inside. “You look fucking amazing! Love the top!”

  “Thanks,” was all I could squeak out, seeing as how thoughts of diapers and baby bottles still danced through my cerebral cortex.

  “Just give me a sec and I’ll be ready.” She bounded down the hallway to get changed, her enormous boobs bouncing everywhere.

  “Your hair looks great. Did you just get it colored?” I yelled after her.

  “Yep. Every six weeks at two hundred bucks a pop is a fucking nightmare but the color fades so fast. I would be a millionaire if I just gave up and went blond like every other bitch in this city.”

  I sank down on her IKEA couch and slowly took in the comfort of Julie’s place. Her apartment still looks like a college student’s—full bar, martini glasses, IKEA coffee table covered in US Weekly and InStyle, heels scattered on the floor, and media cabinet full of Julia Roberts movies. It’s perfect.

  “So what was going on at work?”

  “Car accident plus multiple injuries equals a packed ER,” she yelled from her bedroom.

  “Sounds awful.”

  “It was. Good news: Hot Dr. Ben was on call so I got to stare at his ass while he stitched up a patient’s laceration.”

  “At least it worked out.”

  “For me. Not so much for the patient. He’s in pretty bad shape, poor guy.” Julie appeared in front of me, arms outstretched, sporting enormous cleavage. “Too much boobage?”

  “Possibly, considering it’s not even happy hour.”

  “Sweetie, happy hour isn’t a time, it’s a state of mind.”

  I managed a weak laugh, fully expecting her to bust me and ask what was wrong, but her phone beeped and she opened it up and smiled.

  “Who’s it from?”

  “Mark. Saying thanks for the hot sex last night.”

  “What?”

  “Relax. I’m kidding.”

  “You’d better be. We’ve discussed that many, many times.”

  “C’mon, Clare, just once?”

  “Sorry, no. You can’t sleep with my brother.”

  “I swear I have nothing but honorable intentions.”

  “Julie, he’s looking for a nice girl, not one who will sneak out in the morning before the sun comes up.”

  “Clearly you haven’t heard his college stories.”

  I knew I couldn’t hide my gloominess forever, so on the walk over to Michigan Avenue I initiated Julie’s favorite game: Remember the Time When . . .

  Me: “Remember the time, sophomore year, when you did the Walk of Shame at eight in the morning after that Bikers and Babes party and you walked through a group of pre-frosh with their parents touring campus?”

  Julie: “Remember the time, freshman year, at the Sigma house, when some guy hit on you while you were peeing in a bush outside? What did he say? Oh, I know, ‘I’ve never kissed a girl while she was peeing,’ and then he leaned down and stuck his gross tongue in your mouth?”

  Me: “Or the time Reese’s mom found a list we made of our hookups, written in code so it said things like ‘Sigma Pee Boy.’ She thought we not only slept with all those guys, but couldn’t remember their names so we had to make up nicknames for them?”

  Silence.

  Julie: “Reese. God.”

  Me: “Oh, look! We’re here.”

  3:00 P.M.

  “. . . so fucking hot and his lips are amazing. He’s so hot I’d sit on his face on a Sunday.” Julie rambled on about her ongoing lust for Hot Dr. Ben. By this point, she’d already bought two pairs of boots, a pair of g
old chandelier earrings, and four cute camisoles, and all I’d bought was a latte.

  “Oh, and did I tell you I have another strange coworker?”

  Happy for the distraction, I said, “Really? Do tell. I love your coworker stories.”

  “He’s another nurse but can’t seem to stop touching his crotch. Like, I’ll ask him what he did last night and he’ll shift his dong with every other word. He even pulses it a little, like he’s humping the air, when he talks to people.”

  “That’s disgusting. Shouldn’t you say something to your hiring manager or something?”

  “What the hell for? It’s entertaining. He loves—Hey!” She stopped and looked at me. “Why haven’t you bought anything yet?” She stared suspiciously at my empty hands.

  I’d lost the will to spend all of my rent money when I saw a display of maternity clothes in the first store we visited. I knew I needed to buy something immediately. I desperately reached out and grabbed whatever my hand connected with first and blurted out, “I’m so buying this.”

  Julie looked at me strangely. “That?”

  I looked down and realized I had grabbed a very unflattering pink hair bow.

  “Um, yeah. Hair bows are back in,” I mumbled.

  After I purchased my stylish accessory, Julie decided she needed some new bras so we headed over to Victoria’s Secret. I moped around the store, wishing I was home and curled up in bed.

  “Clare. Clare—come here,” Julie called from one of the dressing rooms.

  “What?” I asked, hoping she wasn’t going to show me a thong or something.

  “Can you get me the cute flower bra in a bigger size? My nipples are showing in this one.”

  “I guess so,” I said with as much enthusiasm as I could scrape together.