That last glass of wine…

September 15, 2010 § Leave a comment

Well, now that (Future)Mama D is employed–thus blessed with health insurance from the magical health insurance fairies– and (Future)Papa M has arrived in the U.S., it’s time to start having the babies.

Apparently, making babies is a highly physical process that mostly involves things that are fun that you can no longer do (like downhill skiing) and, more importantly and dismayingly, things that are delicious that you can no longer eat (like sushi).  D is a bit overwhelmed by the numerous rules public health organizations are encouraging her to impose upon herself to boost fertility and prevent permanent harm to the yet-unformed fetus.  Nevertheless, she is determined to limit the negative effects she has on Future Baby as much as possible and as such is attempting to renounce the awful diet soda habit (even caffeine free, yes).

So Saturday night, she found herself at a lovely restaurant and bar, with her charming husband, looking longingly into her cool, oak-flavored glass of chardonnay about half sipped and realized it might be her last such indulgence for some time to come.  She would have to trade the wine and the chocolate for milk and prenatal vitamins if she was to be serious about this healthy pregnancy thing.  While she had similar passing thoughts before, this buttery, scrumptious glass of golden perfection suddenly became a farewell, not just to vineyarding snobbery, but to a whole life of bodily choices that had really affected no one but herself before.  A life of bingeing on doughnuts when the desire to do so outweighed the known effects on her body, of studying a martial art where she’d get repeatedly kicked, of dangling over the edge of mountains she’d climbed for the rush and the thrill, of downing Diet Coke after Diet Coke like it was water in the desert.

And as this sobering thought overtook her and killed her buzz, she brought the glass to her lips to enjoy and savor these last moments of narcissism.  But before the sweet nectar could be hers, a black fly landed in that delicious California brew.

Screw you, Alanis Morisette, for turning out to be right.

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