Ham-gasm

I steal into the kitchen like a thief, open the fridge, and peer inside. I am starving, as has become the norm ever since Spiceboy knocked me up.

I pretend I'm searching for a snack, but I know what I really want: the thinly sliced French ham Spiceboy picked up from the market yesterday.

Ham, along with all deli meats and soft cheeses, has been sanctioned as a harbinger of evil by the Pregnancy Police, as supposedly it can cause infection and disease and other unpleasant issues for my lovely unborn fetus.

But lately, ham is all I can think about.

And there it is, all wrapped up in pristine white deli paper, just waiting for me to eat it.

The Pregnancy Police have a caveat to their no-deli-meat rule: as long as you heat it until it's steaming, it's okay to eat.

I take the ham from the fridge and open it up, inhaling the heavenly aroma. I tell myself that I will heat the ham in the microwave...but surely it won't hurt if I tear off just one little piece and eat it cold?

So I tear off a small piece of ham and pop it into my mouth.Then I tear off another piece. Then another. Then another. I relish the fabulously hammy taste of it, ehnanced by the secret, seductive notion that I am doing something bad.

In my mind, I see the Pregnancy Police coming for me, guns drawn, desperate to stop my flagrant disregard of their silly rules and save me from my evil food urges.

But in this moment, the French ham is the best thing I've eaten in my life. It is the food of the gods, the pinnacle of delectable deli meats. I tilt my head back, chewing the ham slowly and letting the sweet, salty flavors wash over my tongue. Then I square my shoulders, look the Pregnancy Police in the eye, and flip them the bird.

If I'm going to go down, I might as well go down eating ham.