The Virgin Pregnancy is a strange time for many women. I’m not referring to an immaculate conception, which is a miraculous occurrence reserved for, as some believe, the Baby Jesus and, according to my Aunt Sharon, for my cousin Michelle. Because, even 36 years later, Aunt Sharon still insists that she did not have sexual relations preceding the arrival of her firstborn.
And if somebody swears s/he did “not have sexual relations,” we know it must be true.
No, I am referring to the miserable nine-month window during which us party girls-turned-baby mamas must refrain from letting sweet, sweet, forbidden alcohol pass our lips. No more Guinness, a.k.a. “nectar of the gods.” No more margaritas, a.k.a. “party in a glass.” Just strictly virgin drinks, a.k.a. “no fun for mama-to-be” for 273.931649 days.
Not that I’m, um, counting down the days or anything.
The most trying part of the Virgin Pregnancy is, of course, the first three months. Mr. Candy and I were not yet comfortable telling non-family members the Big News, so going out with friends — who expect me to buy the first round of tequila shots and finish whatever their pussy-ass tolerances can’t handle — was interesting, to say the least. Among my arsenal of excuses:
“I’m recovering from the stomach flu!”
“I’m laying off alcohol to lose weight!”
“I’m the designated driver tonight! Yes, that’s right — I spontaneously and suspiciously decided to volunteer for that position for the first time EVER!”
“I’ve seen the light and become a born-again Soberologist!”
“I’ve entered AA.”
Sadly, friends only seemed to buy the last excuse. Don’t understand why that is?
Now if you’ll pardon me as I get back to my calculations… hey, check that out: only 152.931649 more days to go!