Poor, Poor Prego

Pregnant women get lots of attention. Especially from other women.

It's camaraderie.

When I was pregnant, I would walk through the mall or a store and I would get those looks from others that were just full of sympathy ... sometimes empathy. I would waddle by, and they would tilt their head to one side and smile a little with so much compassion. Or they would walk by and jut their bottom lip out a bit as if to say "aww. Poor thing."

We had a connection.

Well, I was walking through Target one evening, massive pregnant, and people would walk by and look at me with these sort of pitiful expressions on their faces ... pitying me in my enormity, watching me with looks of pain, because they knew how hard those last few weeks could be. Those final days where you always feel like you might be peeing, and you're pretty sure your body is about split in half, and you have to keep talking yourself out of climbing inside the cooler where they keep all the dairy. "Don't mind me people. I'm just hot. How about this cheddar? It's on sale!"

I would smile back at everyone, though, in this manner that said "aaw ... thanks for the compassion, fellow mamas." Or sometimes I would pat my belly and just grin back in a silent language that translated to "Yeah, it's hard but they're worth it, aren't they?"

And at that exact moment, I felt it. I reached down to pat my belly ... and I felt the elastic--y TOP of my tube dress. ON my belly.

I looked down.

I almost died.

Right there.

There I was, pregnant, huge, uncomfortable, and showing all of Target my ENTIRE strapless bra.

My. Entire. Bra.

The one with the self tanner stains on it.

The one that looks like it survived a nuclear winter.

The one that --- never mind. I won't go there.

I was instantly tapping into the Instant Replay feature in my mind, when I realized ... they weren't sympathizing with my pregnancy ... they were sympathizing with what a MORON I was. They were feeling sorry for the CHILD I was about to bring into the world. They were sympathizing for the HUSBAND, whose wife owns a bra like that! They were sympathizing for every person who could possibly be a part of my life. ... Oh her poor 2nd grade teacher.

But do you know what they didn't do?

TELL ME.

Not one person stopped me to say "Um, Miss ... your bra is showing." Not one person tugged at their own shirt to give me a heads up. Kind of like how we point to our own teeth to tell someone they have something in their teeth. Or how we wipe our nose, to tell someone they have a bat in the cave. Or how we flash our headlights to signal to other drivers their headlights are off. Shouldn't someone have flashed me to tell me mine were ON?

We're all in this together, people, and if I look like a moron, I need to someone to tell me. Damage control, ya know? The fewer people who see me looking like freakshow, the better, I think.

I'm sorry but some things should go without saying.

Head over to http://www.onceuponamiracle.com/ for more truly funny stories! It's Tuesday!