Hi, I'm Not Pregnant.

I could not have anticipated the epic fail that was my most recent blog post.  I merely intended to display the horrors of potential childbirth.  I felt the content was fairly straightforward but committed a major misstep when posting to my Facebook page with the title, “I suffer from a disease called Impending Baby Syndrome.”  I anticipated that people would click the link to find out more.  I did not anticipate a barrage of congratulatory emails and texts from well-meaning people who are apparently incapable of clicking on links or reading my blog.  

No one was more surprised by my fake pregnancy than my mother who heard about it through the grapevine and called to find out why I didn’t love her anymore and how I could have treated her so coldly.  Here’s the thing.  I’m zero pregnant.  And if I’m ever to become pregnant, you can bet your ass I won’t be posting about it on Facebook.  I like to keep those details sequestered to this very private and intimate blog.  Unfortunately, no one seemed to be aware of my views on Facebook announcements and now my mom literally hates me.  Whoops.

Despite being literally not pregnant, I have taken some hefty strides in the “let’s get pregnant” department.  As mentioned previously, I have no experience with getting pregnant but lots of experience with the rhythm method, the Nuvaring, and Plan B — the most effective of plans.  

So I thought it best to visit my gynecologist and get her on board with Project Baby.  I had heard lots of horror stories about women attempting to get pregnant over the age of 30 and felt confident that all those scenarios would surely work their ways into my life based on the fact that literally nothing ever goes well for me.  So I was suspicious but optimistic because, at the end of the day, I’m slutty.  And it seems like a slut would have no problems procreating, right?  I should be a doctor.

Needless to say, my gyno was an epic shrew.  I shouldn’t have been surprised because I have never, in my entire life, had a good experience with a doctor.  They typically point out my drug use, or call me fat, or reveal some sort of horrific disease that had gone unnoticed but was seemingly destroying me from the inside out.  Over the years I have seen rheumatologists, nutritionists, and terrifying young people doctors that probably couldn’t get served booze at a bar and none of those interactions ever went well for me.  So I had no reason to believe the Vag Doctor visit was going to be successful, but also had the wherewithal to understand that this was the person who would be tasked with ripping a baby out of me, so I felt I needed to get her on board.

I was in a pretty good mood when I went to see the Vag Doctor.  Half the world already thought I was pregnant because of my Facebook post, so I was feeling fairly optimistic.  The general public felt I was capable of carrying a baby, and surely that sort of support would launch me into actual pregnancy.  In addition, my gyno is located on Rodeo Drive and you have to valet your car when you get there, so I was feeling like a rich person.  Rich people can probably have babies, right?  I felt that I had everything going for me.

This perspective changed immediately upon meeting my adorable, blond gyno.  She is bright and bubbly and has the capacity to wholly insult you in a way that initially feels like a compliment, so it takes a while to catch up.  As she started asking me questions, my optimism slowly waned and turned into defensiveness and then finally...unbridled hostility.

Gyno: Good morning!

Me: Hello adorable, unobtrusive Vagina Doctor at this rich person office.

Gyno: Your blood pressure is on the high side.  Have you eaten anything today?

Me: Just a pot of coffee and a pack of cigarettes.  LOL.  I’m so quirky and avant garde, am I right?!

Gyno: Are you aware that 80% of illnesses are precipitated by smoking?

Me: Doubt it.

Gyno: It could greatly impact your chances of getting pregnant.

Me: Well, if you would let me talk for a minute, I could inform you that I’m slutty and likely to get pregnant at any moment.  I’m probably pregnant right now.  Facebook thinks so.

Gyno: You’re not.  We checked.

Me: Rude.

Things were not going well and let’s just take into consideration that I was literally wrapped in what can best be described as half a robe constructed out of toilet paper.  There seemed to be no front portion to this getup and I was taken aback because everything else about the office conveyed a rich person facility and I was surprised to not be wrapped in silk.  I had been foiled again.

Gyno: I need to let you know that you’re considered high risk due to the fact that you’re over the age of 35.

Me: You mean…like I’m going to die?

Gyno: You may have a harder time getting pregnant.

Me: Don’t you have anything nice to say?

Gyno: Also, are you concerned that you’re overweight?

Again, with this shit.  Since when did it become ok for people to call me fat all the time?  This is going to come as a shock but when I’m naked, I truly think to myself, “Royer, you’ve done it again.  You.  Are.  Killing it.”  Or I buy a new outfit from Walgreens, get dressed and think, “Holy shit, you’ve pulled it off.  You.  Look.  Amazing!”  And then I leave my house and meet a barrage of whorebags that are adamant about my obesity.  I literally cannot catch a break.  

I think I suffer from body dysmorphism, but in the way that I think I look awesome all the time and then a slew of medical professionals and casting agents are like, “No, you definitely don’t.”  It is highly unreasonable and I think the Twat Doctor should have been a little more sensitive and preferably more supportive.  Whatever happened to, “Be who you are!  Love yourself!  Accept your gut and embrace that part of you!”  This Beverly Hills Dickbag was not having any of it.

Me: Don’t you have to gain weight when you’re pregnant?  If anything, you should be commending me on diligently preparing myself.  (Opens half-robe, points to gut)  Doesn’t this seem like it would be a nice place to live?

Gyno: Close your half-robe.

Me: No.

Gyno: Do it.

Me: If I was wearing a full, silk robe we wouldn’t be having this problem.  Your facility is a joke.

(Uncomfortable staring contest with me still holding open half-robe while maintaining fierce eye contact with Vag Doctor)

Finally, I closed half-robe but this bitch was not finished.

Gyno: I see from your chart that you have bamboo spine and that your spine is fused where your pelvis meets your tailbone.

Me: HOW DARE YOU!  THAT’S NOT EVEN MY FAULT!  

Gyno: You’re probably going to have to have a C-Section.

Me: YOU’RE probably going to have to have a C-Section, you inept Twat Doctor!!!

That was the best I could do.  I was humiliated.  I had paid a hefty fee to once again be called fat by a medical professional and obviously smoking is bad for me but I figure I’ll quit once I know there’s actually another person being baked in my gut oven.  But there isn’t.  And I remain not even kind of pregnant.  I did not understand that this process would be so harrowing.  I can’t wait to be actually pregnant so I can show that bitch who’s boss.  

I imagine this is the beginning of what will likely be a long and horrendous road.  Potentially the only thing I’ve actually ever been good at is unequivocal failure.  I think about this a lot when I’m at my law-firm job and everyone asks me how my acting career is coming along. I have literally no experience with setting and achieving reasonable goals, but I do have a lot of experience with feverishly chasing after things that seem unbeatable.  So fuck you womb, I’m comin’ for ya.