I met it for the first time when I skipped school with my then-boyfriend* one sunny March day in high school. It wasn’t planned necessarily. I mean, sure, I’d heard about it. I figured we’d meet eventually. Not for awhile, because I was responsible and smart and to be honest always a little bit chubby and I figured it wouldn’t happen until I either lost some weight or won someone over with my funny-because-I-had-to-be-since-I-was-a-little-chubby personality.
But, like any teenage girl in any family sitcom, things changed once I turned 16. I got skinny. Boys started paying attention to me. And I was in my first ~real~ relationship. He was in crew (of course he was in crew), and naturally, I felt like he was way too good for me. So, when we skipped school that spring day after dating for a mere six months, it only made sense that I would have mediocre sex with him for like 5-7 minutes before crying and begging him to never leave me.
And that, my friends, is how we met. The Pregnancy Scare and I.
I’ve been a connoisseur of Plan B in the eight-ish years since my then-boyfriend plucked my v-card (if my parents are reading this, I’m kidding — totally still a virgin). Brand name, generic, it didn’t matter. The second I had a feeling that for whatever reason *this* time would make me pregnant, even though I always used at least two condoms, I popped one of those bad boys with a swig of vodka and went about my day like I wasn’t casually having a shmashmortion. (Kidding, I know it’s not actually a shmashmortion. It’s really called an “abortion.” Relax.)
In the days since my then-boyfriend BROKE HIS PROMISE AND DID, IN FACT, LEAVE ME, I’ve had enough pregnancy scares to make you think I’m promiscuous as opposed to the serial monogamous that I really am. Still, with my mixture of chronic anxiety and hatred of birth control, it’s no surprise to anyone that each and every month I’m planning how to tell my parents that they’re going to become grandparents.
So, naturally, when my doctor suggested I get an IUD to avoid the horrible side-effects I had been having with the pill, I politely told her to go fuck herself before giving into peer pressure.
I’m going to spare you the details of how the doctor used a medieval-like torture device to clamp open my vagina and cervix, how she shoved the plastic IUD so far up inside of me that I saw stars, and the six months of nonstop blood that gushed out of my genitals. You don’t need those details. The important part is, that my IUD was up there, it was (apparently) doing its job, and once my body accepted it, I forgot it existed for about a year.
And then, well, and then I went back to the doctor and was informed that they couldn’t find it.
Which meant one of three things.
1) The strings attached to it that hang out of the cervix went up inside of me (which is fine. Annoying, but fine).
2) It perforated my uterus and was floating around in my body, slowly killing me.
3) Or even worse, I was pregnant.
So, I was told to come back in two weeks for a sonogram that would determine my fate.
A lot happened in those two weeks. I celebrated Christmas in July. I blacked out and purchased one of those dumb mermaid tail blankets on Prime Day even though I hate the whole mermaid trend, and I was fake proposed to.
Now, the point of this isn’t the fake proposal, even though that in itself was something out of fucking “Gone Girl.”
Basically it comes down to this: He gets down on one knee, I know he’s joking, he gives me a long, romantic speech, I still know he’s joking, he says “will you marry me” at the end, the blood leaves my face and I think for a second that maybe he’s not joking. And then, he puts a Ring Pop on my hand.
Normally in this situation, you’d expect the girl to immediately cry or scream or grab the nearest steak knife and shove it in his jugular, smiling as his warm, gooey blood squirted out of his neck, spraying her face and turning her long blond hair a frightening shade of deep pink.
But no! I didn’t do that! I was shocked, sure. But I laughed it off. We both laughed together. How silly! How funny! Saying “will you marry me” to the girl he’s been dating for three years, 10 months, and six days. We told our friends at dinner parties and I didn’t even cry when I threw the Ring Pop in the trash, unable to look at.
The thing is, however, that I have not gotten over it. Not at all.
Which brings me back to elusive IUD. After recently going back to the doctor for the sonogram that would determine my future, it was quickly revealed that I wasn’t pregnant, it hadn’t ripped a hole in my body and was floating around, destroying any and all organs in its path, and it was in the right place.
But as I wiped the lube off of me, thanks to the probe-like instrument the stranger just shoved inside of me, I stared, transfixed at the pictures of my uterus frozen on the screen. In a few of them, you couldn’t even see the IUD. You couldn’t even tell whether I had a baby in there or not. With a shaky hand, I snapped a million pictures of it, sent it to all of my friends, and asked the age-old question women have asked themselves for generation and generations.
Can I pretend I’m pregnant to get back at my boyfriend for fake proposing to me?
Sure, most, if not all, of the guys I’ve asked have informed me that no. I can’t do this. I’ve been told that it will end very badly, that I can’t handle his response, and that we might actually break up.
But on the other hand, this is the best retaliation I’ll ever get. Being proposed to, only to be told I wasn’t actually being proposed to wasn’t easy. This way, I’ll tell him something shocking and/or upsetting, only to fix it with an ole “just kidding!” at the end. If anything, this isn’t even as bad as what he did to me.
So, what do you think? Should I get some fake pregnancy tests, ask my doctor for actual copies of my sonogram, and inform him that he’s going to be a daddy? Or will this end with me being a single fake mother?
Let me know because if we’re being honest, it’s this or I’ll just have to kill him. No pressure, guys. .
*Please don’t Ctrl+F “boyfriend” This article. Trust me, it’s a lot. I already counted for you to save you the time. It’s five, okay? I use the word five times.