After you give birth, you feel untouchable. Like you have achieved the most challenging of tasks, climbed the highest of mountains. As I was being wheeled from the delivery ward to the rooms, I felt like a victorious Rocky Balboa. My brain threw up her gangsta colors and shouted “I just added to the Earth’s population, bitches! What did YOU do today?!”Read More
"HEY! So did you have the baby yet...or not?"
Errrr.....Not the question anyone wants to hear. Especially not as it's shouted from across the street. I looked at him in embarrassment and horror. He looked at me in horror and embarrassment. My mind went blank. Responding with a smile and a "Yes, 3 months ago, actually," would make me feel waaay worse, so I said nothing. There was no saving the situation. So we just kept staring at each other until he tried to dig himself out of the hole he'd created.
"Err...I mean, of course! Of course you had the baby! I didn't see you when you turned around, that's all!"
Where's a convenient pothole when you need one? I needed to disappear, stat! I looked down at my turd-brown puffer coat, referred to affectionately (or maybe derisively) by my husband as my "dog-walking coat," which really means it's only aesthetically fit for walking a dog, in the dead of night, far away from the well-lit buildings all over the Upper East Side.
I was on dog-related business that late afternoon. Hudson's poo got stuck to his swishy tail the night before and I had to give him a bath at 10pm. So I thought I'd better give him a short cat-like haircut before I had to spend another cold winter's evening hunched over the bathtub, being sprayed with loose, flying dog shit every time he shook out his fur. That brings us to this fateful day, when I was picking him up from his grooming appointment, innocently wearing my dog-walking coat. Notice how I've spent a lot of time subliminally blaming this coat for the whole are-you-still-pregnant-or-what comment.
Because that's really what it had to be. An unflattering cut.
What's worse is the guy who made the comment was one of the owners of the establishment.
"Jeez, she probably wants to kill me!" he half-joked to his partner, who was behind the counter, a safe distance away. He looked pretty amused but said nothing. Smart.
"You know, my wife's pregnant," said the perpetrator, as if that was to make it better. "You're kinda chubby but don't worry, so is my wife," is what I heard.
Ah...I can't wait until he has sympathy cravings and packs on the man-pounds.
How many times have you seen someone and whispered to the person next to you, "Is she pregnant?! I can't tell whether to say congratulations or just ignore it!"
And now it was actually happening. To me.
The three things I've learnt from this skin-melting experience:
It's NEVER okay to ask this question!
I need a new coat. For this I need to lose weight so I can fit into my regular size. You see my conundrum.
Hudson is throwing major shade at me from the corner of my bed (where he's taken up residence since the incident. Not sure if he's silently protesting with me, or if he's pissed he looks like a pussy. Cat.)
In other news, when I went for my pedicure today, the nail technician leaned forward as I was in the midst of unzipping my coat (yes, same stupid coat!) and ogled my stomach while rubbing it (tummy, not coat). All her Korean cronies started Oohing. I think the time for rubbing my belly ended a few months ago, when the baby CAME OUT. Now it's just molestation.
Perverts. Or should I be kind of flattered?