It’s not like this is breaking news or anything, but I have learned that Ricky Martin has announced that he is gay.
Why do people even bother coming out when the out-ness is already so very very clear?
This is a story about how Ricky Martin may be gay, but he is almost certainly the devil. And I am thinking some SEO magic is going to be whipped up through the pairing of “gay” and “devil,” and that amuses me. Even though, to be absolutely clear, I am in no way suggesting that homosexuality is the devil’s work.
Only Ricky Martin.
Imagine me, 90000 months pregnant and about to give birth to first daughter Maj. Except she won’t fucking cooperate. I have never done this before, and I am certain I am doing it wrong. I am having hideously painful contractions every 3 minutes or so, but am not dilating, am not progressing, and am not, apparently, having a baby anytime soon.
They (and by they, I mean Satan’s Kaiser nurse minions) send me home with clucking suggestions that I return when the contractions are coming at two minute intervals.
Which simply never happens. For the next 3 days, I have contractions approximately every 3 minutes. They are unrelenting and exhausting and painful. I do not sleep at all and I cry a lot. I cry on the phone with the nurses, who explain to me that if I can sob and talk to them for longer than 2 minutes without having a contraction, the baby is not coming yet.
We have several of these conversations over the course of these 3 days, and by several I mean more than 20. Each time, they tell me, “It’s not time yet. Your body will tell you when it’s time.” And each time I am too tired to argue and too tired to fight. Each time I docilely agree to stop bothering the busy nurses. Each time, I hang up and go back to the hell that is this last part of my first pregnancy.
I try to remember the birthing class instructor’s advice about going to my “happy place,” advice I laughed off at the time because it seemed so stupid. I am not a “happy place” kind of girl.
But now, I search my mind . . .
I remember the instructor said to breathe. And so I know I am fucked, because the unborn baby is ruling my breathing. She’s somehow reaching through the uterine walls and grabbing little baby fists of all my breathing organs. I am left gasping and panting and moaning for breath.
There is no fucking happy place. It was all a fucking lie.
Three nights I am sleepless like this. Three days and nights of writhing and crying in front of the television . . . watching endless MTV, its images a blur of colors and sound and rhythm. Three minute videos and three minutes between contractions . . . I found comfort in the connection.
You know how sometimes you’ll read about a car accident in which the music is somehow stuck on a single song after impact? And so the seriously injured driver, thrown out of the car and unable to reach the music controls, is forced to listen to Billy Ray Cyrus’ song Achy Breaky Heart in an endless loop until help arrives?
My memory plays tricks on me, because in my memory of my labor, MTV was playing all Ricky Martin all the time. Not a variety of his songs, either . . . just one. One song in an endless tortuous loop that played over and over again as I lay, broken and shattered, thrown cruelly through the windshield of my life.
The song? Livin’ La Vida Loca. Over and over and over again.
Upside, inside out she’s livin la vida loca
She’ll push and pull you down, livin la vida loca
Her lips are devil red and her skin’s the color mocha
She will wear you out livin la vida loca Come On!
Livin la vida loca, Come on!
She’s livin la vida loca.
She’ll make you take your clothes off and go dancing in the rain.
She’ll make you live her crazy life but she’ll take away your pain
like a bullet to your brain. Come On!
I was mesmerized and hypnotized and entranced. It was a sort of demonic sexed-up happy place, and it soothed me.
And then, on the third sleepless night, I began to hallucinate.
Ricky Martin came to me. Spoke to me. Stood in my darkened room with his chiseled features and pretty-boy hair and his magical shaking ass (seriously, is there ANYONE who didn’t know he was gay?).
Arms swaying above his head, pelvis thrusting, eyes glowing yellow, Devil Ricky spoke to me. Spoke directly to me as the music pounded in my head and the video played on my walls. The words were familiar, and yet different somehow.
She will wear you out, livin la vida loca
She’ll make you go so crazy
But I can take away your pain
Put a bullet in your brain! Come on!
Beautiful Devil Ricky stood before me gyrating and singing, over and over again, about how a bullet would solve everything.
Devil Ricky promised we could go to the happy place forever. Together. And even though I knew Devil Ricky was gay, I was so very very tempted.
Instead, I screamed for Mark and told him to take me to the hospital. NOW. I was not coming home until they had taken this baby out of me.
Turned my back on Devil Ricky and slipped into the waiting arms of God.
God’s hugs feel a lot like an epidural, in case you were wondering.