A revolutionary change has taken place that only my obsessive concern about my weight could have wrought. I have decided that I want to be pregnant.

Nope, maternal stirrings are not happening yet. If presented with a golden retriever and a baby, I will choose the former. Babies, in pictures or actual, are still met with indifference unless they are Chinese in which case their sticky-outy hair provides endless fascination. (I don’t know why I don’t just adopt a Chinese baby and be done with it.)

However, the recent rotund-ness of my tummy and my lack of will to stop eating pastries for dessert (this is what happens when your mom restricts your chocolate intake as a child on the dubious grounds that it is causing your tonsils to swell) have resulted in me concluding that pregnancy would be a tres convenient solution.

By being pregnant I would be instantly transformed from girl-with-skinny-arms-and-protuding-belly to girl-with-a-glow. How cool is that?

No longer would people in my office ask when I was planning to have a baby while staring at my stomach (which I only just realised was them not being typical Asian women but rather them being typical women genuinely curious about whether the cause of my bump was a bundle of joy or well, just a bundle).

Not only has my belly grown exponentially but also I have begun to feel tired and breathless. So over the past two weeks, I began to harbour secret visions of being pregnant and never having to bother with the gym again for nine months at least. Or I could magnanimously go to the gym every now and then and people would be very impressed, regardless of whether I lost any weight or not.

V pointed out that after pregnancy I would still have a belly to deal with to which I replied that having a child is as good an excuse as any. All love handles are excused on the basis of child-bearing (except in HK, but even Chinese women do not expect Indian women to be thin after childbirth… only overly-optimistic Indian men like my husband).

Unfortunately, today put paid to any such fantasies because it appears from monthly cramping that I am apparently not “with child”. Rather I am just in-urgent-need-of-the-ab-isolator (as advertised by that irritating telemarkerting man) and my other symptoms are probably a result of sudden heatwave or worse, aforementioned ab-isolator-requiredness.

Oh well, at least I am now a homeowner.

PS: I know that one day my child will read this and suffer from debilitating lack of self-esteem due to being wanted only as a cosmetic cover up but hopefully I will be such an awesome mother when the time comes that this will be cancelled out.
For anyone wondering how this sea-change is going to happen, I am holding onto the avowals of many equally disinterested (in babies and like) women who nevertheless love their own children. In fact, V forsees me being one of those overly clingy, obsessive mothers which may well come to pass.

PSS: Characteristics of ideal baby, should one happen:
a) Girl
b) V’s nose
c) My ears
d) General good health.
I am willing to compromise on a boy but b), c) and d) are non-negotiable.

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