YOU CAN'T SEE ME LIKE THIS!

It was almost nine years ago.  There I was, in a taxi driving over the bridge into Queens with my boyfriend.  I sat behind the driver, melting into the vinyl covered cushions.  He was so handsome.  My boyfriend, not the cab driver.  Thick black hair, thick lips, and a thick...accent to boot.  Speaking of boots, he wore cowboy boots with distressed jeans and a fitted white v-neck t-shirt.  He had no hair on his chest, just a thick...tan.  I'm not going to lie, I had the major hots for him.  His lips were moving and I watched as the New York City skyline raced behind us.  The lights glared as streaming neon colors dizzied my mind.  The buildings danced and spun creating an intoxicating glow that, wait, what the fuck?  No, I was intoxicated.  No.  I was drunk as fuck.  Like shit faced, hammered, Jesus take the wheel, I am fucking TRASHED wasted.

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This was the first time I had ever been this sloshed in front of my boyfriend.  I knew he was talking to me in the cab, but for the life of me, I could not fully form a sentence to respond.  I focused, trying to uncross my eyes.  I figured that if I closed one eye, the other would focus.  Genius, it worked.  I took my time, wrapping my lips around my teeth in a way that would assist me in slurring, "Immma sphhhfine..."

As the words trickled out of my mouth, I realized that the world was moving extremely fast.  A little too fast.  Was the car moving or was it the streets that were sprinting passed the windows? I could hear my boyfriend speaking.  What was he saying?  I think he was saying we should get out of the...

And then:

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"YOU CAN'T SEE ME LIKE THIS," I screamed as he attempted to aid me in my street hurling.  Somewhere near 84th street and Northern Boulevard, I expelled a gallon of Cosmopolitan Martinis I had thought were so cool to drink.  Damn you vodka.  Dam you Sex And The CIty.  

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Mortified, but alcoholically robbed of my strength, I submitted and allowed him into my shit show.  Like he had a choice.  Like I had a choice.  I wondered if this would be the last time I saw him.  

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Finally into my second trimester of pregnancy, I basked in the optimism that the hardest part was over.  No more nausea, I'll get a little more energy, I'll start feeling baby kicks, and hopefully people will begin to assume I am pregnant and not just morbidly obese.  I woke up feeling super jazzed and craving some eggs.  God damn, I wanted me some eggs!  Waking up my husband with my craving desires, he hopped to and began to scramble up my morning breakfast.  

I threw those eggs back like a champ and after a brief moment of satisfaction...uh oh...Mother Fucker...for real?  I had to upchuck it all.  Mother of all fucks.  

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I leaped from the couch to the bathroom just in time to make it to my knees and dunk that puke swish style right into the toilet.  Like sunshine spewing forth, the eggs decided to also make an appearance snotting out of my nose fully formed.  And then, as if it couldn't get any worse, I lost all control of my body and pissed my mother fucking pants.  Well, my light gray Gap Body lowrise hipster underwear.  With full force, the stream shot between my legs finding a home seeping into our bathroom mat.

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As I hear my husband approaching the bathroom, I screamed, "YOU CAN"T SEE ME LIKE THIS!"

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And just like that, life got all Joni Mitchell 'Circle Game' on me.  Nine years ago I wondered how could or would my boyfriend see me after this, would he still take care of me, and let's be real would he still want to bang me?  

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And just like nine years ago, Joel, my then boyfriend and now husband of five years, bathed, clothed, cared for, loved, and eventually banged me.  (Once the dust settled, of course.  And my teeth were thoroughly brushed.) 



 

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