A Pregnant Pause: The Best of Skintentions
A while back, after a trying week, my very sweet and very selfless friend gave me a gift card for a facial. She insisted I treat myself to a relaxing afternoon. (Because nothing says serenity like having an ex Russian gymnast squeeze blackheads on your nose.) When I arrived at the spa, I was greeted by a cheerful lady who enthusiastically showed me to the locker room to change. (It still seems wrong on some level that you have to get naked for a facial. But call it whatever you want. I am more than happy to strip down if my "facial" will include a mini-massage.) I was then directed into the ladies' lounge and instructed to fill out a treatment questionnaire. It was all pretty standard: name, date of birth, allergies, health conditions. Then I got towards the bottom. "Are you pregnant? " Jeez! What's with the hard questions???
Am I pregnant?
A myriad of responses popped in my head: Maybe? How should I know? Probably not. I hope so. Outlook hazy; try again. And finally, fuck off. I didn't want to explain that I was trying to get pregnant and was waiting to find out. I really didn't want to explain anything. As though it was a trick question, I debated back and forth, trying to decide what was the right answer. Saying no seemed pessimistic, but saying yes seemed, well, like lying. But at 5 days past transfer there is no right answer. This was supposed to be a calming break for me and there I was stressing over the questionnaire. What would I do when they tried to upsell me with add-on treatments? Well I would say yes of course, and so I said yes. I am pregnant. A week from now, I may not be, but Svetlana, the facialist, will never know any better.
When she walked into the room, she congratulated me. I cringed a little, thanked her and told her it was still very, very early. With that out of the way, the cleansing, exfoliating and extracting commenced. It was heavenly to be pampered -aside from the embarrassing amount of squeezing that went on. All that questioning left me so vulnerable that I even agreed to a hydrating seaweed mask which I am sure did nothing more then left me smelling like a california roll.
In the end, she wished me good luck. I started to tell her that I needed all the luck I could get right now. It did seem a little psychotic to be telling half-truths (or half-falses?) about the happenings in my uterus, but I didn't want to care anymore. For the first time in my life I was pregnant. And, apparently, neurotic. But Svetlana doesn't need to know that either.
I walked out glowing. It could be the pregnancy, but I am guessing it was probably the seaweed.
Am I pregnant?
A myriad of responses popped in my head: Maybe? How should I know? Probably not. I hope so. Outlook hazy; try again. And finally, fuck off. I didn't want to explain that I was trying to get pregnant and was waiting to find out. I really didn't want to explain anything. As though it was a trick question, I debated back and forth, trying to decide what was the right answer. Saying no seemed pessimistic, but saying yes seemed, well, like lying. But at 5 days past transfer there is no right answer. This was supposed to be a calming break for me and there I was stressing over the questionnaire. What would I do when they tried to upsell me with add-on treatments? Well I would say yes of course, and so I said yes. I am pregnant. A week from now, I may not be, but Svetlana, the facialist, will never know any better.
When she walked into the room, she congratulated me. I cringed a little, thanked her and told her it was still very, very early. With that out of the way, the cleansing, exfoliating and extracting commenced. It was heavenly to be pampered -aside from the embarrassing amount of squeezing that went on. All that questioning left me so vulnerable that I even agreed to a hydrating seaweed mask which I am sure did nothing more then left me smelling like a california roll.
In the end, she wished me good luck. I started to tell her that I needed all the luck I could get right now. It did seem a little psychotic to be telling half-truths (or half-falses?) about the happenings in my uterus, but I didn't want to care anymore. For the first time in my life I was pregnant. And, apparently, neurotic. But Svetlana doesn't need to know that either.
I walked out glowing. It could be the pregnancy, but I am guessing it was probably the seaweed.
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