Well, for the record, my period hasn't shown up yet.
I have been feeling cramps, cramps that trick me into thinking, "Okay, here it comes.." But then when I'm finished in the bathroom I emerge, confused, and when Tom is home he'll ask, "Is it here yet?"
It being, you know, my period.
For some reason I've never been that comfortable with calling my period AF. It just seems...weird. It's my period. I figure someone decided to call it AF to make the readers feel more at ease, so they wouldn't scrunch their faces up in horror at the thought of the diarist menstrating.
I don't know.
Plus I wonder how someone out there, someone whose real name was Aunt Flo would feel. Would they be surprised to know that their name is another word for period? Are they constantly teased by family and friends, who jokingly slap the side of their arms and say, "Hey Aunt Flo. Hah. Aunt Flo, you know, like the period.."
I also am not a fan of words like preggo or preggers. It sounds like something a cheerleader would say. I can just see one now, bleached blond with tight thighs and too much makeup exclaiming, "Oh GOSH. You're PREGGO. How EXCITING!" Followed by a bunch of annoying squeals as only a group of girls can make.
I plan on testing tomorrow. I'm becoming a pro at the whole peeing in a cup thing. Because knowing me, even though the instructions state that you can hold the test under a stream of pee, I'd probably instead get my entire hand wet and the test will emerge dry.
Coordinated, I am not. I even attempted gymnastics as a child, because all my friends were doing it and surely I could master twirling on a bar and cartwheeling across the room.
Not so much. What happened was I broke down in tears when the teacher lifted me on the bar and instructed me to spin around it. Instead, as she let go of me, I just held onto the bar for dear life, my knuckles turning white.
And the cartwheels? I never figured those out. Instead I went barreling into a wall, doing some sort of weird twist that caused my ankle to swell up to the size of a coconut.
After class, when my Mom came to collect me, the teacher politely suggested that I try the beginner class. Even though the beginner class was filled with four and five year-olds and at the time, I was eight.
Tom, he keeps telling me that I'm pregnant. But me, I just don't know. All the books say that your breasts will feel sore, that more veins will be apparent around them, so yesterday I spent a good ten minutes staring at my naked breasts in the mirror, trying to figure it out, as though they'd suddenly come alive and say, "Surprise! You ARE pregnant!"
My body, it baffles me.