I am annoyed when the counter woman at the corner coffee-shop calls me “miss” three times during one transaction. As in, “Can I help you, miss?” “You have $3.80 left on your gift card, miss,” and “Here’s your decaf early gray, miss.” Yes, I know it might be a regional thing. Yes, I know I look younger than I am. And yes I know I have bigger things to worry about. But I just cannot stand it. I’ve never liked it, but I noticed in the fall that at a certain point, when I got to a certain size, it became “ma’am.” So, now that I’m back to “miss,” I wonder what on earth she is thinking. Nothing at all, apparently. Why the hell do I come here?
Whenever I get a new prescription, I worry that the pharmacist messed up and that I’m actually getting a prescription that will cause a miscarriage or birth defects.
I am worried that my pregnancy fogged brain will make me forget some key piece of information in preparation for my cerclage so I’m thinking I’ll call the doctor’s office this week just to make sure I really know what’s going on, and will write it down.
I’m no longer scared of ghosts or cemeteries after dark.
Rereading the Anne of Green Gables series now, after learning that one of L. M. Montgomery’s sons died at birth, has been very cathartic. Much more so than books explicitly about loss.