I've never been much of an environmentalist. Maybe it's because so many of the most ardent activists have a shrill, we-must-abandon-our-vehicles-and-go-live-in-a-mud-hut tone to their message. Or maybe it's because I was reared in the South, where a disproportionate number of folks drive big trucks, regard wildlife as something to be shot and mounted and deploy enough hairspray every day to open ozone holes the size of Georgia. Whatever the reason, even after more than a decade of environmental indoctrination on both the West and East Coasts, I still have a tough time working up gut-level outrage over mankind's assault on Mother Nature. Except when I am pregnant—an unsettling condition in which I now find myself. At that point, I morph from a mild-mannered supporter of environmental regulation into one of the most obsessive antipollution zealots you can find outside of an ecoterrorists' convention.
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