On three separate occasions, some idiot or another has asked me about my pregnancy and impending baby. This is strange, and not just because I wasn't pregnant at the time, have never been pregnant in my life and hope to never know the joy of a some foreign entity stealing my food and nutrients.
What's strange about it is that I don't carry my weight in my stomach. Don't get me wrong - really low-rise jeans are out of the question and if I hop up and down my stomach keeps moving for a disturbing second or two after I stop.
The point is, if anybody was going to put her foot in her mouth by asking when I'm due, I would feel much less annoyed if they suggested the baby was about to come out of my ass. That would at least be a feasible explanation for the size of my trunk.
Instead, I had one dotty old woman approach me at a gala dinner I was forced to attend. I was looking good as far as I knew, and was sitting drinking a glass of wine. The old bat sat down next to me to make small talk, and asked the Question That Should Never Be Asked.
I could have told her that I was due half-past never, or whenever the fibre supplements started kicking in, but instead I took pity on her. A colleague of mine who was eight months pregnant at the time was making the rounds from table to table, and we were about the same height with similar hair and black dresses. Perhaps the old woman was thinking about the walking tent formerly known as my co-worker, Emily.
I counted to ten and told myself it may have been an honest mistake, and then I told her as gently as I could that she was mistaken. I was not pregnant. My colleague Emily...now that girl is pregnant. To further prove I was as empty a vessel as could be, I poured myself more wine. She laughed an embarrassed laugh and off she went.
Until five minutes later.
I was standing in the line-up for the buffet when the same old lady came up to me, and asked me the same unthinkable question. It had only been five minutes. I was now standing instead of sitting. I was still clutching a glass of wine. I was fairly certain I had not had unprotected sex on the way from my table to the buffet line, but perhaps that could have been an option. Now I wasn't just mortified - I was pissed.
In as cold a voice as I could muster I reminded her that I was the same girl she had asked the same question to not five minutes ago. And I still wasn't pregnant, there was still no due date, and if that changed between the salad and beef carving stations, she would be the first person I would tell.
More recently, I doing a little shopping at the beer and wine store. I was wearing a hoodie, with my keys and my wallet in my front pockets. Just as I decided on my selection, a little old man came up to me and told me I should be ashamed of myself.
For a moment I thought he was questioning my taste in wine, and so I asked him why. He told me I should never be buying wine in my condition, and I couldn't think fast enough as to what condition that would be. Overly-anxious? Under-sexed? Lacking a proper chin? Craving nachos? What condition exactly was the little old dude referring to...?
Aw hell no!
I pulled my wallet out of my front pockets. I pulled my keys out of my pockets. I smoothed down the front of my hoodie, and asked him what condition he thought it was that should stop me from buying and drinking anything in the store?
It seemed he was mistaken. He marched off, secure in his own self-righteousness and threw a glance or two back at me as if to make sure I really wasn't about to begin contractions.
Now I think very carefully about holding or carrying anything in my front for fear I look pregnant. By this rationale my steering wheel must make me look like I'm about ready for a C-section, and I don't even like keeping my arms folded in front in case I look like I'm hiding something, when really all I'm doing is trying to fetchingly squeeze my boobs together.
I suppose I should look on the bright side and be happy that really old, annoying people assume men would have sex with me. This has to imply a certain level of attractiveness, which I can't help but question occasionally.
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