You know the one. A friend gets pregnant, then another, then another until you realize you either have to take a sip or be surrounded by enough bulging uterus's that there won't be any room for you with your friends any longer.
And my uterus is such a joiner, I'm living in terror.
It doesn't matter that I'd actually have to do something to get pregnant, I'm just as worried about immaculate conception. (Hell, it worked for the Virgin Mary. Why not me?)
Three ladies in my soon to be former office have popped preggers. While I'm thrilled for them, I'm also avoiding them like the plague. In fact, they do have the plague, one I've proven highly susceptible to. I've had it four times, in fact.
For me, it starts with nausea, vomiting, weight gain, headaches, backaches, and then a pain in the ass I'm stuck with for life.
There's no vaccine available right now. (I have another month and a half before I know is my Essure procedure is 100% effective)
My husband is a happy carrier--or he would be if I'd let him transmit the disease. (Whoa, buddy! Keep your distance!) a bottle of Lysol only goes so far, then I have to wave the baby in front of him as a reminder why distance is a good thing.
So I've been scrupulously avoiding the following: drinking the water, touching my husband, being around pregnant women (they all work at the other office!), breathing the air, and sitting on toilet seats.
I'm sure I've missed some means of transmission. But hovering above the toilet is becoming a pain in my . . .
So just remember ----