I’ll be waiting / with a gun and a pack of sandwiches.

Yesterday at the gym, I quickly grabbed a random magazine off the rack to read during my elliptical machine workout; unfortunately, that publication turned out to be Cookie, a Conde Nast publication for affluent new mothers. Well, whatever – I’m a open-minded person who tries to stay educated on a variety of topics, so I gave it a go.

It kept me occupied for about 15 minutes, but after rolling my eyes at a fluff piece about Helena Christensen’s  gorgeous son and her “quick beauty tips” (Tip No. 1: Look like Helena Christensen. End of story.), gagging at a pictorial about decorating your toddler’s room with “supercute” $90 lamps and $350 art prints and completely ignoring a special section on “hilarious” pregnancy  stories, I threw the thing aside. For the remaining portion of my workout, I entertained myself by deciphering the mangled closed captions of the latest episode of CSI.

But still, Cookie made its mark on my subconscious. This morning, I awoke with fresh memories of a horrible dream: in a dressing room at a mall,  I’d suddenly discovered I was about 3 months pregnant. But not glowingly, adorably round – hideously misshapen. My belly was lumpy and covered in severe stretch marks and purple bruises. In tears, I called Adam to break the news. He was not happy. After we hung up, I  wondered why I’d been punished and wished that I could’ve avoided this whole fiasco. “What am I going to do with a kid?!” I thought frantically.

In reality, me getting pregnant would not be the worst thing in the world. But dreams like this just reinforce what I already know in my heart: that I am very, very far away from being ready for a child.

And that I should never read lame mommy magazines ever again.