But "fantastic" quickly turned into "humiliating" when they tried to seat us in a booth ... and I didn't fit. OMG, you guys. How embarrassing. I mean, I could slide into the seat, but my belly pressed so uncomfortably against the edge of the table that I couldn't fathom eating a meal like that. So we had to relocate to a table. In the meantime, the tables surrounding us - all full, of course - were smiling and snickering. To top it off, the table next to ours just happened to be a guy Curtis works with. And a superior, at that. So his first and only impression of me is "the pregnant fatty who couldn't even fit into a booth."
To give you some reference, this is what I look like from my own vantage point. Note the absence of feet.
(Yes, my boobs are like ten miles apart. They'd have to be the size of watermelons in order for me to have the kind of cleavage that touches. And right now they're only, ohh, about the size of grapefruits. And once I'm not pregnant or breastfeeding, they'll be the size - and shape - of deflated raisins. But someday, mark my words, I will BUY cleavage ... bwahaha!)
This is what I looked like from the side ... two or more weeks ago. So you can only imagine me right now.So after we relocated to a table, our waitress comes up. And you know how waitresses are supposed to be friendly and helpful? Well, she wasn't. At least not in the sense of bolstering my ego."Ohmigod!" she gasped upon seeing my gargantuan gut. "Is there just one in there?"
"Yes, just one," I said politely with, like, the fakest smile ever.
"I was huge like that too," she gushed. "But I had twins."
(... Bitch.)All this is to say nothing of the stares, the bugged-out "I-can't-believe-I'm-seeing-this" eyes, the openmouthed gapes. I'm not exaggerating one iota when I tell you that people will literally stop what they're doing - or stop dead in their tracks while walking - to do a double take as I pass by. It's as if I've suddenly grown a Siamese twin. With a hunchback. And a mullet.
If I were not hugely pregnant, but grossly obese instead, would people have the audacity to say, "Whoa, is that a glandular problem or just too many Twinkies?" ... No. They wouldn't. (God, at least I hope they wouldn't!) At least not to my face. So why is incubating a
I keep telling myself: I'm in the home stretch. I'm in the home stretch. I'm in the home stretch.
PS - If all goes according to plan, I'm going to *attempt* to keep everyone posted during my labor via Twitter. (I'd tweet during the pushing phase too, but I can only do so many things at once, y'all.) Anyway, if you want in on the excitement (does Rita poop on the birthing table this time?) you'll need to follow me on Twitter. And it would help greatly if you could vote in my poll (check the right-hand sidebar of the blog) ... my Twitter page looks crazy on some screens, but to others it looks just fine - so I'm trying to decide whether it's worth going to all the trouble to change it.