On Friday, I looked at the calendar and realized more than a month had passed and I hadn't had a period. I had not entered the Red Tent. Aunt Flo declined to visit.
I did the math. My last period started on Christmas Day (because that is how my period always is -- if there is a holiday or a vacation, it's practically guaranteed to show up). I'm normally an every-28-days kind of gal, and since Friday was January 29, that put me at eight days late.
And I am never, ever that late. Which led me to one conclusion: I must be pregnant.
The day wore on. As minutes ticked by, my conviction only became stronger. It was too perfect. I was quitting my job and I happened to be pregnant at the same time? It just worked out too well. I could spend the next nine months nesting and writing my book.
After work I went straight to a drug store and bought a pregnancy test. I took it home and peed on it. I waited two minutes. One blue line showed in the window, indicating that I was decidedly not pregnant.
I showed Hubs. He expressed intense relief. I threw the stick away and felt a minor pang of regret. I mean, it's no shock not to be pregnant. I am on the pill and am in no way attempting to become pregnant at the moment, but it was still a small disappointment, while at the same time being a major relief.
The next day (Saturday, of course! *&%$!!!) I started my period.