It's midnight. Guess what I'm about to do?
Eat, eat, eat, eat, eat.
My Gestational Diabetes/Glucose Tolerance Test is in a few hours.
After a month of staring at the bottle of orange evilness lurking in the back of my fridge, the Dreaded Day of Doom has finally arrived. Evil-In-A-Bottle and I are about to come face-to-face.
I am beyond sad. I'm completely despondent.
Hang on while I check the online Thesaurus for more sad words...
I'm lachrymose, melancholic, dispirited, and utterly tenebrific. You heard me. I said "tenebrific".
I guess I'm anticipating the worst case scenario here. During my pregnancy with Avery, I failed the initial Glucose Tolerance test and had to return for the second, more extensive, 3-hour round. That sugary non-sense sat in my belly for about 2.5 seconds before I puked it's orange stickiness all over the place. It was NOT pretty.
I hate puking. I despise puking. I'm deathly afraid of puking...and I'm even more afraid of puking in public.
Pray for me, my Sisters. Pray hard. Pray like you've never prayed before. Pray passionately, dithyrambically and even...perfervidly.
I'm gonna need it. The girl sitting next to me might need it too.