It's a good thing I'm not famous with swarms of zealous paparazzi around me. (But also, it's a little bit too bad that I'm not, because I really think Jennifer Aniston and I would get along swimmingly and might look really cute having our picture taken together poolside in a very luxurious location sipping extremely sophisticated beverages.)

Because if I were famous, these events would have been widely publicized.

Scenario 1. Zumba.
I went to Zumba class.  By myself.  Apparently, I am no longer a 19 year old cheerleader who can shake my sugar 'til the sun goes down.  Apparently, in fact, I am 30, and eleven weeks postpartum, and I do not know how to Zumba.  I tried following the woman in front of me.  If you've ever been to an organized exercise class, you KNOW this woman.  The over-zealous, takes it all too serious, where does she buy spandex in that color? one.  She looked like she was strapped onto the back of a cracked out bumble-bee trying to whip it into submission while simultaneously gyrating her hips with reckless and wild abandon.

So I settle for quick glimpses of the instructor through the sea of hip-shaking, booty-wagging, breast-shimmying women, and end up following about six beats behind everyone else, turning right when they're turning left, shaking when they're shimmying, honking when they're tonking, and gyrating when they're...oh whoops...cooling down.  I was far too confused to work up any form of sweat, but at one point I accidentally started lactating and that was exciting.  Everyone else's shirt was damp in all those exercise-appropriate areas, but I seemed to be the only one with large wet nipple stains.

And although most days I'm seven to fourteen percent disappointed that I'm not crazy famous with swarms of paparazzi, this was one day where I thanked my lucky heavens that no cameras were in pursuit.  TMZ would have squashed my entire career in thirty four recorded seconds of rhythm-less, lactational gyrations.  Then I would have to stage a divorce from Kyle and go on the Millionaire Matchmaker in a last-ditch attempt to resurrect my celebrity and make a quirky yet alluringly sexy appearance as the Millionaire-ess and Patti and I would have it set up ahead of time that Kyle would be one of the potential suitors, and we'd re-marry in a very publicized and lavish affair with Rhys and Quin and Anwen in our wedding and suddenly I'd be America's darling once again.

But it seems like a lot of work to go through for one lousy Zumba class.

***

Scenario 2: Where I pump gas in my bathing suit.
Most people would have made some serious mental notations about no longer being a nineteen year old cheerleader after the Zumba incident.  Ironically, the last time I was in a bathing suit at a gas station, I WAS a nineteen year old cheerleader, trying to raise money for my team by parading around half naked like a prostitute washing cars at the local Citgo station.

So how, and why, was it that I, at eleven weeks postpartum, found myself in my bathing suit pumping gas?  On a very busy road in a very busy town, mind you?  With three children in my car?

Let's just say that this was far less intentional than my college days, and came about through the perfect storm of a gas light, a screaming newborn in the back seat, and a day at the beach that left us all exhausted and sandy.  And my pants conveniently tucked into our massive beach bag which was tucked under our massive stroller in the back of my Forester.  When I realized that accessing my pants would require me to get out of the car and dig through all our gear in my swim-ready state, I decided it would be easier and less embarrassing to just pump in my ruffle-butt tankini.

You're welcome, City of Portsmouth.  Your teen pregnancy rate just went down by 28 percent.

***

But in closing, let me make one thing clear.  I WILL learn how to Zumba.  I will gyrate my way to EXTREME SEXINESS, and then?  Once I've accomplished that?  I will head straight for the nearest gas station and pump gas in my string bikini while slowly shaking my long golden locks of hair like one of the poor role models in a beer commercial.  And then teenagers everywhere will think that pregnancy is a good idea because LOOK AT HER!  it most definitely does not ruin your body forever.

Wanting

I remember in college once making the remark that I didn't "believe" in infertility treatments. That couples who couldn't have children should adopt one of the tens of thousands of children alone in this world without parents. I remember being disgusted at the millions of self-absorbed dollars that were thrown at the fertility industry. At those poor, driven women who would stop at nothing for a child of their own.

I can almost remember what it felt like to assume that I knew something. What it felt like to believe. To take for granted the fact that I would have my own children. So much so that I didn't even stop to consider compassion.

Having is a weak emotion. Having lets you loosen your grip. Lets you get careless. Wanting is where the strength is, the passion.

These days I grasp for dear life to my mind's picture of my maybe child. Those small, curling fingers. Tiny feet, miniature toenails. All of the love in the world renewed.

My linen closet is stacked with drugs. I have crisp white paper bags full of syringes that terrify me. Small glass vials of clear liquid. I brought them home and proceeded to reorganize the entire closet to make room. To give the impression of calm control. Everything is okay in a house with neatly folded towels.

Any fear, any hope, is hidden quietly among the sheets.