The Order of Things

Now I'm not gettin' on any moral high-horse here, and I really don't care in what order you pass life's milestones, but I am beginning to see some rationale in the marriage-before-baby paradigm. It's not because of any antiquated notions of propriety, or because the church ladies will gossip, or even because the last name issue will be confusing and bothersome. All that crap is crap and your baby will be just as beautiful.

But I am here to tell you, pregnancy is just not the time to try to attract a man. I don't care what bullshit they feed you about pregnant women being sexy, it is just about the least sexy 10 (NOT 9 as they lead you to believe) months of your life.

I guess in the beginning it's not sooo bad, save for the constant nausea, vomiting, aversion to random scents, and general bloated feeling. At least during this time, you could still wear a descent-looking outfit to dinner, were you able to actually sit in a restaurant without running for the ladies' room every 5 minutes. Of course during this point you can't so much as have a glass of wine, so the idea of going on a date, even with someone you previously liked, lacks any real enjoyment factor.

In a few months, you just look chubby and haven't a single thing to wear. Let me tell you those maternity jeans, what a joke. Since the whole damn waistband is elastic, you can't hardly walk half a block before the denim seam is half-way down your ass and the crotch is between your knees. I paid a small fortune for a pair of designer maternity jeans and have to walk around with one hand holdin' up the seat of my pants, like a pot-bellied rap star.

And in the last few months, lord-a mercy, now there's a time to have a ring on your finger if ever there was one. Here I am, the size of a baby orca waiting to be harpooned by a near-sighted fisherman. My down-there must look like the Amazonian rain forest, though since I haven't seen it in months I can't give you an accurate description. My breast are leaking, I haven't had a good B.M. in months, and I'm pretty sure I have a hem-mo-roid. Trust me when I tell you that no one would have sex with me right now that was not legally obligated to do so.Hence the idea that one be married before one gets knocked-up seems the more intelligent choice at this point.

I mean, let's be honest, would you hang around to pry the shoes off the swollen feet of a snowman-shaped emotional basket case with an unreasonable fondness for chocolate sauce, which has no hope of being used in any sexual exploit in the foreseeable future? Only if it was too expensive to leave her. Thusly, friends, you best get somethin' in writin' before you embark down the balloon-shaped path ending in what must be the least sexy presentation of your Hoo-Ha that he will ever not want to see again.

God bless Sweetpotato, and God bless the New York Giants for giving him something to live for in the otherwise hormonally-overcharged, emotionally-unpredictable environment which is our home.