32: Thirty-Two

The human body at thirty-two weeks pregnant is a thing of wonder. As in: I wonder what happens next. I wonder how long this will go on. I wonder if it will be September or October or November. I wonder if this still fits. I wonder if the dog knows. I wonder if the dog will like her. I wonder if she will remember the dog. I wonder if that is a hand or a foot. I wonder if she has a knife in there. I wonder if one day she’ll find the notebook full of notes from baby-prep classes and if she will also laugh at the word “galactagogue” and the fifteen ways I misspelled it. I wonder if this rising unsease is acid reflux or Braxton Hicks or simple panic. I wonder if I can get out of this chair. I wonder if I actually need to pick that up. I wonder if I will miss this. 

The human body at thirty-two weeks pregnant is all that, and then it gets a cold, and the wonder expands. Can I take this Robitussin; can Breathe Right strips can be surgically implanted; will ever cough without peeing myself again; etc. Just a cold, not covid, not according to the iHealth rapid tests of the last three mornings, and I wonder how to explain the disappointment? I’ve been going to increasingly silly-seeming lengths to avoid this sickness for the past two and a half years and now I’m pining for it? But if I must feel this shitty at least my fetus could get some meaningful antibodies out of it, and I could get a brief free pass to eat inside a restaurant like it’s 2019, a year whose far-awayness seems to multiply exponentially every month now, every week, oh no / thank god.

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I wanted more for this newsletter with the perfectly timed numbering, but here is what I can offer: the last eleven things I starred in Pocket. The criteria seems to be “did not fill me with overwhelming dread.” 

RIP, inventor of the Trapper Keeper (and resident of Marietta, who knew?). OK, maybe a little bit of dread. They forgot River Street Deli and my mom's house. I have watched and will continue to watch every episode of this cursed show. My friend Kate! How much of urban planning starts as fan fiction for cities? Tempting. Whoopsie. Everyone on this stage trying to keep it together with varying levels of success. RIP, Eggplant Baby Club. "Now is the time that we have.”

See you again on the far side of this cold, on the far side of this summer, on the far side of who knows what else.