By Heather O.
At the risk of inviting every sicko on the internet trolling for po*n, I offer the following:
Not in the “Yeah, baby” kinda of way, ’cause really, nothing says, “I’m too sexy for my shirt” like looking like a water buffalo and needing help out of bed every morning. Like a beetle who has been turned on his back and is waving his legs helplessly, hoping for some assistance before he curls up and dies.
(Am I mixing my metaphors here?)
No, I’m talking about the kind of hot when you are seriously considering turning up the AC just as your 5 year old wraps his little arms around his knees and says, “Mommy, it’s cold in here!”
The kind of hot when your husband goes to bed in sweats and a long sleeved sweatshirt and wraps himself in the quilt while you, who have banned box fans from your bedroom pretty much your entire marriage, have 2 of them blowing at you full blast all night.
The kind of hot that makes your mother say to you when she is visiting, “Hey, do you have any extra blankets? I’m freezing in here!”
The kind of hot that makes you seriously consider sticking your head in the freezer long enough for your eyebrows to frost over and your nose hair freeze.
The kind of hot that wonders if you can turn your garage into some sort of Arctic habitat, build an igloo, and live there all summer, like a reverse sort of mammal hibernation thing. They build penguin habitats at zoos all the time, after all. How hard could it be?
The last time I was this pregnant, it was February. And I lived in Boston. I remember walking along the Charles River with a friend, armed with only a sweatshirt against the weather, and she remarked how stinkin’ cold it was. I told her I had just been thinking it was luxuriously cool.
Yes, I did just use the phrase “luxuriously cool” to describe New England in the dead of winter. Only a crazy pregnant woman would do that.
A crazy pregnant woman who is hot.
Who’s up for icecream? I think I’m going to go dive into a vat of it.