Not to get too teenagery faux-meta on your Pretty arses, but my usual default approach to the world is one of detached bemusement. It isn't intentional, but I generally find myself living the Lloyd Dobler* philosophy - if I can couch my enthusiasm about any given subject with a comfortable layer of irony and enough "Flight of the Conchords" episodes, it won't hurt as much if it doesn't turn out as I'd secretly hoped.
*Why, yes, I will be making outdated 80s movie references as long as we both shall live, forever and ever, amen. Deal with it.
But this time, I can't help it. I'm happy. Excited, even.
(Alert: Smug Singletons, here's where you should click over to another blog. You're welcome.)
I had another good ultrasound last week; the baby ("Grand Master P"? Or is that just too much for this white girl to pull off?) continues to look healthy. As my Twitter friends know, I'm pretty sure I felt him kick for the first time too.
This is real. This might actually be happening. I have absolutely no control over how it all will work out, but it's happening.
And I'm 100%, absolutely, un-ironically, thrilled about it. Happy. Occasionally terrified, what with that whole lack of control thing, but happy. Full stop.
Does this mean I'll be giving up my protective layer du sarcasm anytime soon? God, I hope not. Jon G*osselin is bound to do something else stupid, so it's only a matter of time (brief, I imagine).
Until then, I can't help it. Happy.*
*PS - I owe you all a "bump" picture update, which I will provide upon the earlier to appear of the following: (1) free Photoshop program; or (2) the magical anti-acne, ahem, "Pregnancy Glow" potions I've ordered. Thank you for your understanding.