Wrong. Never assume.
I was born with a lovely mix of emotions that classify me as sensitive. I need some wellies to wade through the small stream of tears I have cried over the course of my young life. Some of these tears were understandable, but most would belong in the why-are-you-crying-this-is-a-tv-commercial category.
As a whole, living with a growing baby inside of me for nine months is thankfully easy, but pregnancy in my case, does concoct a dangerous cocktail of emotions and hormones. I would say that normally my emotions would be like a girly trio of a cosmopolitan, a margarita and a piña colada. When my pregnancy hormones are added to my normal emotions, we end up with something that looks like straight vodka + straight tequila + straight rum. Yum, yum.
On opposite day.
A couple of months ago, Chris chose a movie for us to watch. I thought he was joking about choosing The Road. I, unfortunately, am the queen of complaining about all of Chris' movie choices even though they turn out to be really good 99% of the time so I was determined to be nice for once and not complain ... but I seriously thought he knew better than to choose The Road. Then the movie started and brought the apocalypse to my be-nice-and-quiet goal.
Do you know what happens in the movie? Just don't watch it. I never read the book, but I knew the storyline because Chris had and relayed the horrific plot since he knew his wife without a reading stomach of steel would never, ever read it.
I proceeded to sob for two straight hours all while berating Chris incessantly for making me watch it ... and yet I would yell at him if he said he was going to turn it off. Super sane, right here. I brought down the ironing board and ironed my mountain of wrinkly clothes because I had some faulty notion that combining the worst movie ever with my least favorite household task would somehow make the combination better. Smart one, I am. Instead, I just looked like the portrait of an unhappy housewife (which I am not!!). Ironing board, tear-covered face, pregnant.
Come morning, I looked like the portrait of a college senior suffering from senioritis and the popularity of Four Loko (that pretty much dates my graduation year, ha!). Baggy eyes, swollen eyelids, pale, and a throbbing headache that cursed me all the livelong day. No amount of water or Gatorade could drown that cursing sailor of a headache out. All I wanted was salty Ramen. And I didn't even have any fuzzy memories to balance out the hangover.
So this is where my tolerance stands:
Once again, I do not recommend watching the apocalyptic cocktail of The Road while pregnant unless you have a level of emotional tolerance equivalent to the alcohol tolerance of Indiana Jones' fair Marion. If so, then watch up.
(In Chris' defense, it is a good movie, it just is way too tragic and sad of situation for me to watch. When I was incoherently pondering the reason any sane human would like it, Chris wisely responded that it shows the depth of a father's love. I guess).