I shouldn’t have been pregnant. I was on the pill.
And yet, I knew that I was because I could feel my entire body rebelling against me—I was no longer in control.
A trip to the drug store, and three minutes later I had confirmation that the dizzying nausea, the feverishness, and the aching were not the result of the flu-bug that was going around, as I had hoped. Instead, they were the horrifying conclusion to a regrettable night.
I had just finished grad school and moved upstate from New York City to Albany to start a year-and-a-half long newspaper fellowship. I didn’t have friends, but I did have an OkCupid account. I met a nice enough guy there, and we dated for a few weeks, until he bought a house and a puppy and made clear that he was rapidly heading toward settling down. We parted ways, but a few weeks later, on yet another friendless Friday night, I asked him out to dinner. I drank too much. I don’t especially remember how, but we wound up back at his place. I do remember asking him to wear a condom. I also remember being too out of it to effectively protest when he declined. The next day, I made an appointment for an STD test, blocked his number, unfriended him on Facebook, and sincerely hoped to never see him again.