Porky Piglet

There are few times in life when negative is a positive. Today is one of those days.

I’ve put on a little weight during my annual winter hibernation. I’m not going to lie. Apparently there’s no point in attempting to lie, because even complete strangers have begun to comment on it. I took some clothes to the consignment store and as the woman was cataloging the items and the sizes, “Zero Petit… ,” she says, looks at me, “Are these your clothes?” Uh…yeah… “Oh,” she says. “You don’t look it.”

Now, just stop right there- before you start rolling your eyes because I’m complaining about five pounds, five pounds in either direction on my frame makes a big difference. I’m not trying to get anyone to say, Oh, Kate, no… you’re so skinny, you look great. I’m not that girl. And I don’t think it’s fair that I’m not allowed to talk about my weight issues just because I’m small. Complaining about my weight is my right as a woman, and I refuse to be left out. I demand the right to bitch.

Now I know this is probably a result of having watched 4 hours of “I Never Knew I was Pregnant,” on TLC last week, but I’m starting to get a little paranoid. Ok, I’m getting really paranoid. Usually any weight I put on goes straight to my ass or my boobs, generally where you’d want it to go, but this winter, I’m emerging from the cave with what can only be described as a belly. This disturbs me, because it’s not a gut-belly, it’s a little round belly. And, ok, maybe I’ve been a teensy bit more hormonal than usual.

This is not the first time I’ve been totally paranoid about a nonexistent pregnancy. But it is my general understanding of the universe that as soon as you drop your guard, that’s when they get you. If God is going to get me pregnant, it’s definitely going to be the “I never knew because I only gained ten pounds, kept getting my period and had no symptoms,” kind of pregnancy so that I can’t thwart him. God, as I know him, is a sneaky motherf*cker. But I’m onto him.

It’s not that I don’t want a baby, I do- for like an hour, forty-five minutes. Not the forever and ever kind. I would have no problems with a baby if I didn’t have to birth it or take care of it. I’ve got things to be, people to do, havoc to wreck. I’d be a great father, but a mother? Sometimes I hate being a gay man trapped in the body of a woman.

You could chalk all this up to me being completely insane and generally neurotic (which is a pretty safe bet) if I didn’t actually know two people who never knew they were pregnant. Well, one eventually figured it out when she ballooned, but the other one I saw a month before it happened and she had actually lost weight and looked better than I’d ever seen her. Then she gave birth into her pajama pants in the waiting room at the hospital.

I find myself alternately praying to God that there is actually a baby inside me and that’s the reason for the protrusion, and then I realize what I’ve just said, drop to my knees, clasp my hands together and call out, “Please let me just be fat, please let me just be fat!” I mean, my diet generally consists of a variety of processed cheese and pasta dishes that come either in a box or a pouch (although in the interest of my health I have switched to fat-free milk, and Smart Balance Light butter alternative) and I create meals specifically so that I can douse them in sour cream.

Finally, I can’t take the emotional vortex anymore and I cough up the $15 for a home pregnancy test. And just like my attitude and my bank balance, it was negative. Which means I’m just getting fat! Crap. Perhaps one last macaroni & cheese breakfast… just to celebrate.