So the past week has been interesting. I spent a lovely and not at all stressful afternoon at the hospital last Friday, dealing with Scary Pregnancy Things. The upshot of the ordeal was that both I and bebe were fine, but I was instructed to spend the weekend on “modified bedrest,” which, in case you weren't certain, is incredibly dull. But I shan't dwell; thankfully, I’m now back to my regular routine, and I’ve given my growing fetus a stern talking-to.
And speaking of which, one of the benefits of finally starting to look obviously pregnant is that occasionally, people will offer you their seats on the subway. I say occasionally, because I ride the train during the morning rush hour, when more often than not, young, douchebag businessmen will elbow you in the kidney/beat you about the head and face with their Louis Vuitton briefcases (OF COURSE that’s the bag they have) to get to the elusive empty seat. And then, even if they notice your belly, they will not get up, but rather, look with abnormal interest at their newspaper/subway advertisements for shady podiatrists/iPods-- ANYTHING to avoid the sight of your pregnant belly (and with it, the feeling like they should perhaps get up and offer you the seat). I see this every day, people. You could be ACTIVELY BIRTHING A CHILD ON THE TRAIN, and they’d just stare intently at the ad for Dr. Zizmore’s miracle chemical peel (now, with more fruit acids!).
All of this to say that there are a few kind souls who--when they see a visibly pregnant lady dragging ass out there--will offer up their seats. One such woman was on my train the other day. I was standing there in heels and suit, when she looked up from her book and smiled at me. She then offered me her seat, and told me that I should thank “my man” because she could “just tell that [I was] well cared for, by [my] grooming.” (Like a purebred dog, or something? I DON’T EVEN KNOW WHAT THIS MEANS. HELP ME.) My alarm bells were going off, but she gestured to her seat once again. It was only then that I noticed she was wearing mismatched bedroom slippers, one of which said “Life is Good!” under a picture of an embroidered, smiling daisy.
(The other slipper, in case you were wondering, was blue plush, and sort of nondescript.)
(Well, I guess as nondescript as a slipper on a subway can be.)
I weighed my options...and decided to take the seat. And in so doing, officially became the type of person who knowingly takes seats from crazy people. What have I become?! I am not proud.
I’ve spent the past few days distracting myself from thinking about this by devouring the delicious Canadian chocolate the lovely Angella sent me (Aero chocolate bar! Where have you been all my life?) and catching up on my new favorite obsession, How I Met Your Mother.
Did you people know that this show is HILARIOUS? And if so, why didn’t you tell me?