On Becoming a Domestic and Laboratory Goddess

Another post I wrote at about 8 months pregnant. Reading back through this stuff, I was really cranky at the end of my pregnancy. And semi-violent.

I am learning that being pregnant (although only for hopefully 35 more days) makes people think they can say just about anything they want to me. You see, once sperm and egg join into a tiny little embryo, and that embryo takes root in your womb like a dandelion, you become but a vessel for the development of new life and lose your own womanly identity...

And grown people just say the darndest things. For example:

Wow, you're really going to explode soon, aren't you?
Are you sure there's not twins in there?
Well, you definitely look thinner from that back.
That's why I think you're having a boy. That thing is huge.
How are you able to find a bra that fits?
Oh, you're definitely going before 40 weeks. You look pretty ripe.
Do you have a lot of stretch marks?

The worst is this woman in my building...one of the secretaries. She's kind of like a black hole. When you walk by her office you try to tread lightly so that you're not caught in her gravitational well and sucked into her terrible, morale crushing domain. I don't think she's a bad person, mind you. I think she is just slightly miserable in her life and needs to spread that misery around. By increasing the surface area of her misery, perhaps she can decrease the volume to which she is exposed. So, whenever she sees me creep by her office (which I must do to get to mine) she wants to know about how I'm feeling and what my symptoms are. When I tell her I feel great, she seems to get a little dejected. Like she wants to bond over our mutual heartburn. So, the other day I told her the 'roids (which I do not have...I promise you I remain pristine) are a real bitch just to come up with something for her to gripe about. At which point I remembered that this meant I had to hear about hers....

And the touching. The touching only gets worse the nearer to the end. I have developed a ninja pose that works on strangers, but you really can't karate chop a coworker. So, I try my best not to shirk and smile meekly as people rub their grubby hands over my stomach like Ralph Maccio did over that car in The Karate Kid. The humor of thinking to myself "wax on, wax off" while some old broad touches me is the only thing that gets me through it...

I promise this will be my last post about how I don't like to be touched. For realz. I am beginning to feel like a broken record.