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Postgrad Pregnancy Scare: Meet Your Four Potential Baby Daddies

 

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Alright ladies, let’s be honest with ourselves here. We’ve all had this happen one time or another. Now, for all the men out there who have never had to deal with this type of severe anxiety (caused by the fact you can’t keep it in your pants, and we can’t keep you out of ours), let me paint a picture for you…

Scene: You’re trying to center yourself at yoga class after a long day in the office. Just as you are about to reach a zen-like state it washes over you. A flood of intense panic. What day is it? How many weeks ago did I last get it? You lose all focus and start counting backwards to your last period. Last week you blacked out at the season opener tailgate. You don’t remember much, but one thing you do know is you were not on your period. The week before you flashed everyone at your best friend’s wedding. While you obviously had no shame you also had no period. The two weeks before that you were getting classy drunk off wine at your grandparent’s house in Cape Cod. Out of respect for your elders, you refrained from the ever-so-sloppy wine blackout, and you can, in fact, recall that you did not have your period.

Shit. You’re at four weeks now. You reach back even further into your hazy memory. Were you on it during the company summer cookout? You can’t remember because you erased that event from your mind entirely. Your body is shaking and you’re starting to wonder if the reason you violently barfed during Sunday brunch was due to morning sickness and not those five shots of the devil’s mouthwash, AKA Fireball, the night before. As you position yourself into downward dog, you rack your brain through your most recent male suitors, trying to find a best case scenario. Nada.

You drive home in a state of fear. Will my pregnancy body be the Jessica Simpson type? Or more of a Princess Kate? You pray for the latter. You get home and send out the SOS text to your girls:

“AM I FUCKING PREGNANT? OMG I’M FUCKING PREGNANT! GET OVER HERE BEFORE I PLAN C MYSELF! BRING ME A TEST!”

(Plan C: Think Kate Winslet in Revolutionary Road)

Your army of chicks roll in bringing what you asked for, and asking the question you didn’t want to hear.

“Whose would it be?”

You shake your head in shame and start down the list of your four potential baby daddies:

1. The Suit

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He’s a lawyer, he’s a banker, he refers to himself as a “goddamn rain maker.” He laid it on real thick one night at happy hour and you ate it up. If you weren’t so inebriated, you may have noticed his receding hairline, but couldn’t see past his (used) Audi r8. The suit would definitely demand a paternity test, but at least you know if it came back a match your kid would be well dressed and well off.

2. The Stoner

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“Fat Blunts” Richardson — or at least that’s what his customers call him. FBR would swaddle your potential bambino in hemp blankets and rock him asleep to the chill sounds of Bob Marley. You met him at a music festival, and after six Smirnoff Ice and some questionable clove cigarettes, one thing led to another. You better hope he’s too high to contribute to naming the baby, because you would most likely have to raise a kid named Kush or Dank. As if you haven’t broken your mother’s heart enough.

3. The Ex

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It was late, you were lonely, The Notebook was on and he texted you in a time of severe vulnerability/blind lust for Ryan Gosling’s abs. You still hate him for breaking up with you to date a college junior, but his apartment has SUCH a nice view. When he said all he wanted to do was spoon and watch a movie, you naively believed him. Tisk Tisk. Spooning only leads to one thing. Forking.

4. The Random

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Was it Joe? John? Jake? What you do know is that you had one too many Shandys and now Jackson could be your future baby daddy. Think hard. Was it Jeff from Houston in town for a conference? Or was Jason? Did Jared have a mustache? What you can deduce is your bastard child will be well mannered, as Jim was polite enough to Irish exit the morning after.

You lock yourself in the bathroom for the longest two minutes of your life, and silently curse your chosen form of birth control. Did you forget to take a pill? Did your Depo shot not work this time? Did the condom break? Was your NuvaRing defective? Deep breath. You try your damnedest to pee on the stick, and not your hand, then sit and wait.

Two minutes pass. One line and your golden. Two lines and the next nine months are going to involve control top leggings and coco butter. Breathe. Very slowly you reach for the test. You feel like your heart suddenly dropped into your stomach. Palms sweating you bring the test eye level and peek at the results.

ONE LINE.

Exhale.

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