Unfortunately for me, in my younger years there were no famously brilliant spokespeople for young single mothers. How lucky would I have been if Bristol Palin was a guest speaker at my high school pep rally? How would my life have been different if my principal was willing to pay Ms. Palin a small fortune for her tale of hypocrisy designed to convince us impressionable young girls why it was ok for her, but definitely not ok for the rest of us to be having sex? Sounds a little to me like the pot calling the kettle slutty.
At the very least though, I’d have had the chance to ask her the burning question we’ve all been dying to know. And that question, my friends, is after coming to terms with the awful mistake of getting pregnant in the first place, why she would then go on to make a second terrible decision and actually choose to name her child Tripp? I mean trip, incidentally, is what she would have had to do in order to fall upon that arrogant douche bag that got her pregnant in the first place. And to be completely honest, I’m glad I wasn’t the only one who tripped and fell on a dead beat penis. In fact, I was quickly tiring of carrying that burning torch for America.
The truth of the matter is that my life would not have been different. The decisions I had made that led me to this point were going to change my life, sure. But no amount of youth church activities and sacrament meetings would have tamed the evil temptress within me. I was going to learn this lesson someday no matter how many forces had tried to steer me clear of it.
As I realized these things I instantly felt the kind of relief inside myself that can only be experienced by taking your bra off at the end of a long day or having a bowel movement.
I lay uncomfortably in that hospital bed wedged between my past and my future for almost an entire day, cursing that bitch, Eve, for disobediently eating the fruit in the Garden of Eden, plaguing me to be a mortal woman and to feel the labors of my own forbidden indulgences when the doctor came in and declared that it was finally time to push.
In hindsight it has hit me like a sack of balls on more than one occasion that the delivery room wasn’t the best place to be giving my unborn son’s already “absentee” father the opportunity to be a dad. But in my defense, I was under the potent effects of pregnancy hormones and pain relief medications and the mixture of the two had proven to be a tad stronger than your average everyday cocktail. And since he had played such an important part in the conception, I invited him in to be a part of the birth. Not my best idea. For the record, nothing spells awkward like spreading your legs and wet farting in front of your mother and the guy who knocked you up. I had heard from many trusted friends that when the time came to push it would be a natural instinct that I wouldn’t be able to ignore. And to those who led me to believe such lies I say, F YOU! There was no bearing down, no feelings of relief from pushing and still no freaking baby. Just lots of wet farts and awkwardness and wishing it could be over.
I was hardly able to contain my excitement at the beauty of the words “emergency c-section” as they rolled off the doctors lips. It was high time we got the ball rolling on this thing. I was beyond excited. Not only did I get to finally have this baby but I also got to legally experience some of the best drugs out there! So when the nurse walked in with a razor and a bowl of water and indicated that she’d be shaving me for free I could no longer hide my feelings of gratitude toward this blessed event in my life. It was like pulling through the Taco Bell drive through and realizing they didn’t charge me for my Mexican pizza.
After thanking her profusely and filling her in that it had been a while since I could see “down there” to do it myself, she looked at me oddly and then left the room. It was then that I realized that my free Mexican pizza was missing the cheese. She was only planning on shaving the portion the doctors would need to cut for the surgery and I was therefore left with the equivalent of a vagina mullet. Oh well, I thought. At this point I knew that there would never again be anything sexy about my naked body, and I begrudgingly added my vagina mullet in between Janet Jackson’s nipple and all eleven seasons of Seventh Heaven on my mental list of things that should never again see the light of day.
