I know you’re tired of hearing about it. I’m tired of hearing myself think about it. But you’re going to read about it anyway, because I won’t be able to let it go unless it gets put somewhere besides the space between my ears.

As you may have seen from a fine gentleman’s comment on my last post, I clearly mis-remembered many details from last week’s internet escapades. The actual events unfolded, and continued to unfold, in a way far more ludicrous than I gave it credit for. (I tend to see the good in things. It’s a curse, and is often impractical.)

Husband scheduled the internet installation. No issues, no questions, no red flags. Two days later, the company called very confused and told him there is already an account set up at our address. He informed them we’re the new residents, the existing account is probably from the old tenants, and also: what about the account setup I requested two days ago? (The old tenants also did not change their address with the post office and their mailbox had gotten full by the time we moved in. They either left in a hurry or are as forgetful as a pregnant woman perceptibly losing brain cells by the day. Or, they died.)

But please, he begged the representative, don’t take our word for it that we live here! How about we come down to your (inconveniently located) store with a copy of our lease agreement to PROVE TO YOU that we are indeed the current residents, that we indeed require your internet service, and we indeed believe you to be some very high-functioning numb skulls? Oh, you were going to ask us to do that anyway? So psyched we’re on the same page!!

I’m adopting new skills as a pregnant woman. Some are fun, like completely miscalculating how loud a fart will be in public, and others are terrifying, like the blind confidence that you have a “sense” about children and can connect in a profound way with any child, at any time, on any street corner.

A very useful skill, however, is losing the ability to care about things that are overwhelmingly stupid. Maybe it’s because things that are overwhelmingly stupid fall outside of our control, and I no longer have the capacity to care about things upon which I have zero influence. I like to think of it as a new found “efficiency of mind.” It’s about energy conservation. My body is preparing me for soon becoming alert to the exhausting needs of a tiny human, needs which don’t give a hoot about city-dwellers’ assholish driving habits, a crappy waiter at your favorite restaurant, or or how some exchanges simply cannot and will not go correctly, ever.

It’s this skill that allows me to slide right past irritation and move straight to laughing inappropriately when Husband tells me the person at the internet store couldn’t find record of his account or service request. I think it’s because those two people are on different sides of the planet, are working in systems that are too far apart, and thus the distance is much too great for the information to have traveled from Point A to Point B in three days.

When he told me this I laughed way too hard, but not because I don’t care. I care because this man who has diligently maintained the house in my dark months when I was unable, who has trekked to the most grotesque of fast-food shacks at ungodly hours of the night to fetch me the only food item I will tolerate (and subsequently dumped it down my gullet lest I bite off the tips of his fingers), who has assured me through my endless apologies for “being awful” that he still thinks I’m pretty, has to walk around in little circles for weeks and weeks trying to accomplish what should be a fairly direct task.

It’s like an all-too-realistic game of Would You Rather. Babe! Would you rather try to set up internet service at our new place, or slog around thigh-deep in a bog full of liquid poop? Joke’s on us, though. Soon our lives will revolve around poop. And we may or may not have internet by then.