If I knew getting pregnant would be this
complicated, I would have followed Sissy and been knocked up a decade ago,
likely on a dare, after too many gimlets with Greg at Automatic Slims. Here’s a
photo of Sissy, my BFF, at my rehearsal dinner, eight-months pregnant. Her “cankles” were so swollen we
brought her silver ice buckets from the tables, a champagne pedicure. Back
then, I thought she made a crazy mistake moving to Boston for his job, giving
up hers, and starting a family at thirty. I was convinced she was going to miss
out on everything meaningful in being self-sufficient and independently solvent
with a closet full of Barney’s newest labels. Now, as I sit here on a six-week
leave from my high-octane career, I’m starting to wonder if maybe Sissy had the
better master plan for this thing called life. – Rachel Z
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