Thankfully this has never happened to me. Because premarital sex is against the law. But for all you sluts out there, pregnancy tests are indeed the dark side of dating. We’ve all taken them, huddled over the sink, pee everywhere and underwear sagging around your ankles because you were just too freaked out to do anything but stare at the little reveal window and wait. (Yes, even me. I was only kidding about that whole abstinence thing.) I actually took one recently. There was pretty much no way I was knocked up. None at all. Okay, mostly impossible. Like, if I did have a bun in the oven, you would have seen me on the news already in the developing story of the first ever pregnancy from French kissing. But I just couldn’t figure out why I kept gaining weight. Surely it must be a lifeform evolving in utero. Mmmmm. No. The pregnancy tests (there were two in the box so I peed on both) came back negatory. As it turns out, my jeans don’t fit because I’ve been stuffing my face with donuts and egg nog lattes. (Mmmmm donuts.)
That’s right. Laugh. Get it all out. It’s okay.
But is my story as crazy as the one of my friend who is 7 mos into baby cooking with a Santa Belly and a Parton Rack to prove it who continues to take pregnancy tests just to be sure, even though, as she claims, a kickboxer is training against her bladder?
It’s a toss up. And I bet there are even kookier EPT, First Response and Clear Blue stories out there. And I want to hear them! Please share! Anonymously if you like. If you don’t, I’ll be forced to share more of mine, and I’m not sure my ego can take the humiliation of just how redonkulous I can be. (And don’t even get me started on Plan B madness.)