4w1d: A Closet Alcoholic

I’m quite sure my co-workers think I’m a closet alcoholic. I’m not kidding.

I’m still very early in my pregnancy and it’s the first one after our loss, so of course I’m a barrel of nerves which means every time I feel a twinge or a tweak or something more graphic than that I hightail it to the ladies room with a mysterious bulge in my sweater pocket (no, it’s not a flask it’s my cell phone). Which of course everything shows to be status quo and I tell myself “Dude, you need to chill out.” Well, that’s until 20 minutes later and I feel something else and just repeat the cycle. Adding the supplement to the game has just caused more of this.

I’m not complaining. Believe me, I’m so not complaining. I will run to the ladies room every 20 minutes for the next 9 months if I have to, but I’m sure at some point an intervention is going to be held in our Office Administrator’s office. I imagine it will be something to the effect of “L, a lot of people are very concerned about your behavior.” I mean, it’s not like she can say “Look lady are you a lush or do you have IBS? Which is it?” She’s a nice person so it would be nice. She’d probably hand me some pamphlet full of information about alcoholism and AA and all that. I’m sure when I leave for the day someone goes through my drawers looking for my flask. I should add one just for kicks. Little does anyone know that I never drink. No really, I don’t. I drank on our trip and that was probably one of the first times this year. I’ve never been fond of the drink.

I almost want to change Offspring’s nickname to Lush or Alchie. Something to remind me that people seriously think I have an issue. It probably doesn’t help that a couple of times when I’ve ran to the ladies room, and thought I was alone in there, I’ve let out a “whew, thank goodness, I’m just losing my mind.” Then of course I hear the toilet flush, my hand promptly slaps over my mouth and I sit perfectly still trying not to breathe as if that is going to reverse what I just said. No, I’m okay, just thankful that blood isn’t pooling in my undies, no big deal, carry on.

So why do I think that people think I might have an issue? Almost every time I come back from the ladies room someone is staring at me like “Oh that poor thing, 28 years old and already throwing her life away to the drink. Pity.”