Mama Spidey and the missing period
Can you find love whilst queuing at the chemist to get a pregnancy test?
She wakes up with a start and opens her eyes. The world is silent and nothing but specks of dust move around her. It all feels very peaceful during the first seconds of the day. This is before she can remember. Who she is, where she is, all that has happened before this point. The worries that have been troubling her mind during the past few days. She directs a hand to her belly and rubs it, hoping to feel something. Pain. Cramping. Something.
But nothing. She is a week late and once again has betrayed herself for the benefit of others. Again. When will she learn? Because now it is up to her to feel and manage the anxiety, potentially take the necessary measures. If at least she could cry. Her eyes are a cloudy day that wants to rain but manages only some rude and scarce spitting. If that. She can feel the tension building up behind her eyes. She feels the urge to snap, explode, release, cry in somebody’s arms. But her role in life has always been and continues to be the mediator, the one who asks everybody if they are ok, rarely ever to be asked that in return. Being the shoulder to cry on, always the helper, never the helpée. Her way to draw people to her side.
Feeling an inkling of a cramp, she feels suddenly hopeful and rushes to the bathroom. Still nothing. Red is not her colour anyway. Frustrated, she remains sat like a sad melon, melting onto the toilet for a few minutes. Eyes staring blankly at the roof. In one of the corners of the bathroom, Mama Spider is carefully wrapping up her children’s next meal in her net. The tiny spideys are all squished around Mama’s abdomen. In a fashion in which you know that if you poke the unfortunate ball of tiny creatures with a stick you will probably unleash a micro-spider pandemonium. Poor Mama carries so many baby spideys on her back that she can barely move. She never wants to become Mama Spidey. Ok. Now the anxiety is really kicking in. Maybe a trip to the chemist to grab another test? Yesterday’s was negative and that should be enough. But yet again it has been a week. Or has it been over a week? Urgh.
She exits the bathroom and strides back and forth across her studio apartment like a caged animal. She cannot think. Could write. Invisible wall between her and the laptop. Could eat. Yesterday night’s family-sized pizza was probably enough food for an entire week. Meditate? Screw that hippy shit.
She is so nervous that has become almost entirely waterproof to the world outside of the confines of her being. Sounds are muffled, conversations filtered out, focus spotty. A thick fog lies within her and other beings and objects, her thoughts muddled up in a soup of anxiety and derealisation. The same memory plays over and over in her head: a cherry-coloured night full of hope and potential, turned into betrayal — this of her to herself, and a real-life nightmare. Chained to that instant in time, where a ‘yes’ should have been a ‘no’, when certain conditions and requirements weren’t met. She cannot fully understand why she acted the way she did. It wasn’t out of fear. Not even (entirely) out of desire. Why did she consent? Maybe out of compliance?
Compliance to what? Why does she keep doing this to herself? Saying ‘yes’ when, deep down, she really wants to say ‘no’? Why does she care about what the rest of the world might be expecting of her to the point of betraying her own principles and basic well-being? When will she learn her lessons? But yet again, she is so incredibly tired of feeling alone that sometimes she will go above and beyond to be accepted by some idiot with a dick. Even if the said idiot is way too into collecting stamps or picks his nose in public. Even if it means spending the next few days or weeks sinking at the bottom of a well of anxiety. Where she will scream but never be heard of rescued. Not that she needs being rescued. But you know, sometimes we could all do with having our own valiant Knight, shining armour included.
Tired of her own thoughts, she finally makes a move and breaks invisible walls. She will have some… Breakfast? Lunch? Brunch? What time is it even? And then go to the chemist. Jeans. T-shirt. Trainers. Leather jacket. Messy bun (The real kind, not the pretend thing that cute girls do). Bit of deodorant. No makeup. Out. She isn’t entirely sure when the last time she showered was. Not that it matters. She isn’t hoping to find the man of her dreams at the pharmacy whilst buying a flipping pregnancy test. Earphones with old 80s Rock blasting directly into her brain and killing a few more brain cells, she hits the road in what seems forever — Agoraphobia who? The very moment she sets foot outside she feels scrutinised but decides to ignore the nagging feeling. The world will have to deal with her unkempt looks today. She is also very used to feeling out of place, the very focus of all judgemental looks. Whether it all happens in her head or not, it’s all the same.
She walks for a few minutes until reaching her favourite cafe, where they have the utmost deliiish pancakes. Which she hasn’t had for a while in the hopes of not having to spend a fortune replacing all of her jeans. Fuck it. Today is pancake day. She takes her seat at the corner table, by the window with a view to the Hyde. Where she always sits, should the seat not be taken by some idiot that somehow hasn’t gotten the memo that this spot is reserved for pretend royalty. Before a definitely new, overly smiley and polite waitress can hand her the menu, she blurts out to her face, ‘Large Oreo pancake with Nutella, berries, cream, Oreo bits and almond toppings with a Cappuccino doppio with double syrup. Pleaseandthankyou.’
‘Bad day?’ the waitress ventures. Oh, don’t even get me started. They give each other a knowing smile. Instant sisterhood. Waitress goes away and returns in a few minutes carrying a platter with a pancake the size of her head and a coffee. Both get drunk and devoured in about a quarter of the total meal prep time. Full as an egg, she stands up (with difficulty) and wobbles towards the counter to pay. She soon realises that her jean’s button must be undone before somebody loses an eye. Will she look ridiculous? Sure. But again. Not looking to find herself a match at the chemist. The chemist. Mama Spidey. Fuck’s sake the anxiety. Ok. Payment. Wink wink to her new waitress-sister. She will return one day under better circumstances and wearing a cuter outfit to have some sort of girly chat with her. Turns around. Exits the place. Chemist-headed.
As she reaches the chemist, she can see her own reflection on the door. Christ, what a sight to behold. Messy bun melting onto some sort of stripper-Leia side-muffin. Massive dark circles under her eyes. Gargantuan zit on her forehead, unicorn style. Syrup stain on her t-shirt, pants undone to allow her Pancake baby (ha, ha) to stick out. Letting out a sigh, she goes into the establishment and gets on the queue. Which isn’t exactly small. Great. She won’t be able to just grab the dang thing and go home. She will also have to queue forever to pick up and do the horrible deed. To distract herself from her own anxiety and poorly-contained anger, she makes up a new game: find all of the medicines that start with an ‘F’. Fluoxetine, Fluconazole, Fenofibrate… Fuckoxetine, Fuckanushole, Feckoffvibrate. Hehe. This should keep her entertained for a while.
Her silly game suddenly gets interrupted by an unexpected movement in her peripheral vision. Somebody is coming into the shop. Distracted and bored, she drowsily turns around. Then she sees him. Le cutie. Oh.My.God. He is absolutely gorgeous. And exactly her type. Long ish light brown hair and well-kept beard. Eyes about the same colour. Dark green shirt, jeans, biker jacket, hiking boots. Book under his arm. Not too strong, not too thin, the look of somebody who takes care of their own body without going overboard at the gym in their quest to become a croissant. The hair says ‘potentially an asshat’, the book says ‘but a cultured one maybe?’. If only she could see what the book is… In an attempt to figure it out she surreptitiously (or so she thinks) turns her head in a somewhat forced side angle to have a peak. Sadly, an inopportune shelf meets the side of her head (very) loudly and a few products fall on the floor. Now everybody (cutie included) is staring at her. She can feel the blood rushing to her head. Should she be lost in the forest at night with a group of poorly-prepped hikers, she could be used as the beacon to send a SOS signal to the forest rescue team.
Apologising way too many times even for a Brit, she starts frantically picking up the fallen products and placing them back on the stand. And to her dismay, in some unfortunate attempt to be chivalrous, le cutie starts helping her. Any chance this establishment has been built on top of a volcano that has remained dormant for centuries? Now would be a great time for it to explode and defuse all focus from her embarrassment. They finally finish off placing everything back in place. And. Ohno. Cutie decides to strike up a conversation.
‘Bad day?’ he goes. Why does everybody keep asking that?
‘Oh, don’t even get me started’, awkward.
‘My name is Brad’, of course. Major asshat name alert. Run for your life.
‘Mine’s Jemima’ she stutters, ‘Nice to meet you’, is she really shaking his hand like this is some sort of formal gala event and not a queue at the chemist to grab a pregnancy test while looking like a hobo? Why is she so bad at this?
‘So, what brings you here?’
‘OhwellyouknowIhaveabadstomachflu’ she stumbles with her words
‘Excuse me?’
‘I, eh…. What is your book, by the way?’
‘Oh! I am reading “Wolf Hall”, by Hilary Mantel. Historical fiction about Henry VIII. Brilliant stuff.’, he pauses. ‘Do you like to read yourself?’ Ok. Cultured asshat it is.
‘Yeah, I do, actually’, she says proudly, ‘Although I am more of a SciFi fan myself. In fact, at the minute, I am reading “This is how you lose the time war”, so breathtakingly beautiful…’
‘No way! Really? I have just finished it recently!’ Brad excitedly interrupts her, ‘I cried like a baby at the end ….BUUUT! Wait, no, no spoilers! You will just have to read it till the end to find out’ clears his throat, ‘and maybe let me know what you think?’
‘Oh? Is this an excuse to ask for my phone number?’ she bats her (probably crusty) eyes at him. I guess she could get around to dating a cute cultured asshat with an unfortunate asshat name.
‘Maybe? Depends on your answer?’, oh you, don’t you dare play coy with me, mister.
‘Yeah sure, always great to meet new people who enjoy good literature’, very casual, well done.
‘Well, maybe we could go for a drink at some point later, if you are not busy’
‘Sure, be grand’
And so they get chatting for a few minutes. Her day is suddenly looking so much brighter, so much so that she forgets why she is there. Who says that one cannot meet their perfect match while looking like absolute garbage queuing at the chemist to buy a pregnancy test? So many years trying to look cute for the boys, for nothing. Screw it. She will become super fat. She will eat pancakes every day. And wear shaggy clothes with stains on them and never detangle her hair ever again. And she will come out of the chemist holding this guy’s hand. They will go for a drink and stare into each other’s eyes. And he will not mind the massive unicorn zit on her forehead. And they will kiss softly and romantically (and he will not mind her horrendous breath either) and then they will meet again the week after. And the one after that. They will go on romantic library dates and will watch the new Dune movie at the cinema. Eventually, they will become boyfriend and girlfriend and love each other very much. They will move in together and read together in the evenings whilst eating greasy takeaway food. They will adopt a pet iguana and its name will be Jesualdo. Jesualdo the iguana. Hehe…
‘Uh… Sorry but… erhm…. Your jeans…’ she is violently broken out of her stupor. How dare he. But Brad’s voice has suddenly taken a turn from seduction mode to the most total and utter awkwardness.
‘Uhrm, what?’
‘Your… trousers… stain…’ His face is as red as “IT”’s balloon and he is looking as terrified as the child kidnapped by said evil clown. She looks down, and then she sees it. Suddenly the idea of the dormant volcano waking up and engulfing them all in flames seems appealing again. Seems like she will not need the pregnancy test after all. For how long has she been bleeding from her vagina like a pig? Apparently, for long enough that she has bled through her trousers and the trail of ovarian lava has reached the floor, forming a tiny puddle below her. Brad looks like he is about to throw up. Grow up, it is just a bit, well a lot, of period blood, lad.
‘ohmygoodnessthanksgodthankyouYES!!!!!!!’
She yells out exploding in relief. She will not become Mama Spidey in the end. She will not become a slave of some horrendous needy creature that she has had to carry in her insides for nearly a year. She will not have to spend the next 18 years (or 30 because future generations are screwed) providing for some money eating leech who will smoke weed and eat all of HER Quality Street from HER sofa after he or she has decided that Uni is for losers. She will not have to push out some idiot who can’t or won’t get a job and will still be sucking off her tit until their mid-50s to then let her rot in an Old Folks Home and never even bother to visit her. And all of that because she has got bad taste in men and also has the bad habit of saying ‘yes’ when she really means ‘no’. Oh my God imagine if she has had to raise this little energy vampire with fucking Pete. Wanker’s so useless he cannot even load a dishwasher without setting it on fire. What would this eejit even do with a baby? He’d feed him uncooked frozen peas with Squares when she’d be out working to provide for them both. They’d end up in jail charged with child neglect or attempted murder after Pete irremediably boils the baby nearly to death because he cannot even think to check the water temperature! All of this for a nasty cock. Seriously?? Oh no girl no, she is so much better than this. Nu-uh. She is out.
‘Uuh… Hello?’ She is made to come out of her stupor for the second time in the span of 15 minutes and looks up from her crotch to see Brad’s thoroughly puzzled look. How long has she even been imagining her horrendous future of unplanned parenthood with baby boiling wanker Pete? One minute? Five? Fifteen?? Flustered, annoyed, but literally vibrating with self-confidence, she smiles at him and energetically pats his shoulder. Dude’s got a real problem with blood, honestly.
‘Sorry buddy, I am not ready to be miserable yet.’ And so she walks away from confused and nearly-about-to-puke Brad into the horizon of proud singlehood: period and syrup-stained, full of pancakes and beans, Unicorn zit, melting Leia bun, head held up high.
***
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