Dear Due date,
Saying that I have been looking forward to you like a child looks forward to Christmas is a gigantic understatement. At first, you seemed so far away, almost as if you would never arrive. The thought of having to wait through the end of winter, all of spring and summer, then the beginning of fall was overwhelming at times.
I don't think I've ever concentrated on one day for so long in my entire life. I started the countdown sometime in March -- the moment the smell of Jerry's tuna sandwich sent me sprinting to the toilet to dry heave. Or maybe it was earlier, when I became a slave to my cravings. When a fleeting thought of watermelon could mandate a run to the grocery store, where I didn't think twice about paying a ridiculous amount for a pre-sliced container in order to hork it down with my fingers before I even made it out of the parking lot.
I wanted you to arrive so badly that I found myself wishing away summer. SUMMER. You know, the swimming, barbecuing, cat-napping, day-trip taking, picnicking, playing outside, so-awesome-you-want-to-preserve-it-in-a-bottle season. And yet, the promise of you trumped it enough that I wasn't upset as the weeks ticked by. A definite first for me.
When I finally was able to flip the calendar over to October, I was ecstatic. It meant November was next. The finish line was in sight. The end was near. If my body wasn't so uncoordinated and uncooperative at that point, I probably would've attempted a happy dance. Instead, I celebrated by buying a bigger pair of maternity pants and foregoing any footwear other than sneakers.
Now, after months and months and months and months, you're finally here.
And I have no qualms about saying that you're a big, fat disappointment.
You're so big and fat that if you were a person, you wouldn't be able to get out of bed. You'd have a pulley system set up out of a nearby window so that when the pizza delivery guy came, you'd wheel down the money in a bucket with a note instructing him to attach your four meat-lover's pies onto the rope so you could wheel up your afternoon snack.
I know, that was a little harsh. You're not over yet. Only half over. It's noon and you still have a little less than 12 hours to deliver. Literally.
But I'm not holding my breath.
I now know what I should've known a long time ago: you were an estimate, a good guess at best. It was wrong of me to put so much stock in you. I was like an overzealous soccer mom pushing you to become something other than what you really were -- just another ordinary day.
One I will spend the entirety of in my fleece pants and Jerry's T-shirt and hoodie sweatshirt, lamenting about how wrong I was about you.
Until I bid you good day.
But why wait? I'm done with waiting. No time like the present.
Good day, Sir. May you rot like the uninspired 24-hour period that you were destined to be.