As Beyonce instructs, I’ve been dancing around with my hands in the air for the past five weeks.

I’ve been be-bopping to her tune all summer while Scott fulfills his clerkship with Cox Smith in San Antonio, TX.

I’ve been shaking my hips to the rhythm while I attend three master’s classes and work fulltime at The Columbus Dispatch.

I’ve realized something though, during all this dancing and grooving—the reality of Singledom isn’t quite as peppy as Beyonce would lead you to believe. In fact, it pretty much stinks. Stinks like Easter Eggs forgotten behind the couch. Stinks like dead rats hidden in sewer pipes. Stinks like the baby’s diapers I’ll soon be changing.

In order to ward off all this Stinkiness, I’ve attempted to formulate a list of the benefits. Consider it my Oust for lonely and sad days.

• There’s no need to worry about shutting the bathroom door.
• The sheets actually stay in place on the bed.
• There’s no need to remove my toothbrush head on our Sonicare when I’m done brushing.
• The Downy ball always makes it out of the washing machine.
• I have sole control of the remote control.
• I can be assured that the rim on the milk jug is free from saliva.
• I never make fruitless trips to the mailbox only to find it empty and the mail already collected.
• Laundry takes half the time to fold.
• All the pillows stay arranged on the couch, rather than strewn on the floor.
• I can come home from shopping without fearing the “What’s the damage?” question.

But here’s the real problem. These so-called advantages are really just superficial. Like Oust, they just cloy the air with flowery scents and attempt to hide the stench, which returns with more potency after the slightest breeze.

True companionship, I’ve found, is the fresh perfume of roses, the comfort of freshly-laundered whites, and sweetness of clean babies. I can’t wait for that perfume to re-enter my life and drive away all the stinkiness of the past five weeks.

NOTE: All hand waving, grooving, and hip shaking is purely hypothetical. Any “hip shaking” could be classified as purely unintentional nine-month pregnant lady waddling. Certainly, at this point, no one (even the Perfume of my life) wants to see me dressed in 3-inch, lace-up heels, dancing in a skin-tight black leotard. Plus, even at my best, there is absolutely no way my legs could ever have the same Barbie Doll appearance. It really is amazing what they can do with an air brush…

Lonica Stuff | 4 Comments »

Santa Claus isn’t the only one with a growing belly dusted with cookie crumbs and dribbled with milk. Any nine-month pregnant woman can easily relate. Only, the pregnant woman attributes her rounding shape to an ever-encroaching baby rather than the over-indulgence in too much peppermint-flavored cocoa and gingerbread—at least she hopes. Nevertheless, she still runs the daily risk of soiling her limited wardrobe at any dining opportunity.

An expanding waistline and the need for stronger laundry detergents aren’t the only complaints pregnant women have in common with Jolly Old St. Nicholas. They too would find it difficult to nestle gifts under a tree—as they avoid any exertion that requires reaching below knee-height. This includes such activities as removing the local newspapers and advertisements from the front stoop, wearing shoes that require any sort of lacing or tying, or retrieving the pen that rolls off the desk and onto the floor.

Pregnant women, like our friendly North Pole resident, risk wedging themselves in awkward positions upon any entrance or exit. While more sophisticated entrances, such as swooping up and down chimneys are immediately out of the question, pregnant women experience difficulty with more mundane maneuvers. The space between door jamb and handle never seems quite wide enough, as evidenced by the continual black marks apparent on the woman’s previously mentioned limited wardrobe. The cozy corner on the couch is off-limits, as no graceful or quick exit possibly exists. The casual passerby might gain more of a glimpse than desired as the pregnant woman fumbles to emerge from the car wearing heels and a skirt.

The pregnant woman often sports a rosy complexion, as well. This natural blush, unlike her jolly counterpart, is not a result of breezing through the chill night air behind eight faithful reindeer, but rather of over-heating in an un-air conditioned car during the end-of-summer commute home from work. She often lacks that twinkle in her eye, though. Constant jabs to the ribs, restless nights, frequent trips to the restroom, and aching round ligaments, back muscles, and hips quickly dull the gleam in many a pregnant woman’s eye.

Despite the many difficulties they face during the course of 40 long weeks, expectant mothers have one last—and perhaps most important—characteristic in common with Chris Cringle. At the end of a long night’s work, both the charitable St. Nick and the newly-ordained mother hope to bring joy to the world through their self-sacrifice and humble gift. And that is the real purpose of growing a belly that jiggles and rolls like a bowl full of jelly.

Baby Stuff, Lonica Stuff | 3 Comments »