Public property
In general, I don't like being the center of attention. I much prefer to observe and sneer. Seriously, watching people behave the way they do is fascinating, and I actually do enjoy listening to people divulge the contents of their hearts and minds.
Since moving into the obviously pregnant state, however, I am no longer able to move about relatively anonymously. Old men on buses poke, prod and caress my protruding belly, inquire as to my due date, how many I have/want to have, and brag about their impressively expanding family tree. Middle-aged women in pharmacies, parks, and grocery stores have seemingly no qualms about sharing their opinions on the positioning of the baby, how much pain I can look forward to in two months (TWO MONTHS!!!), or whether or not I should really be allowed to carry a jar of peanut butter in my backpack. Even little kids stare at me like I've got elephantiasis of the gut.
The questions are so intimate and the comments so forward, I don't register the peculiarity of the inappropriateness until after the fact. People I don't know well have laughingly referred to my breast size and want to know if I've started leaking yet. Or whether or not we are massaging my perineum religiously. Recently, while I was asking if a restaurant was still open for lunch, a woman seated nearby started exclaiming, "Oh la la! Oh la la! Ah oui, ah oui! Oh la la!" If she hadn't been staring at my belly, I might have given her a high five for achieving spontaneous orgasm on a side-street cafe.
Since moving into the obviously pregnant state, however, I am no longer able to move about relatively anonymously. Old men on buses poke, prod and caress my protruding belly, inquire as to my due date, how many I have/want to have, and brag about their impressively expanding family tree. Middle-aged women in pharmacies, parks, and grocery stores have seemingly no qualms about sharing their opinions on the positioning of the baby, how much pain I can look forward to in two months (TWO MONTHS!!!), or whether or not I should really be allowed to carry a jar of peanut butter in my backpack. Even little kids stare at me like I've got elephantiasis of the gut.
The questions are so intimate and the comments so forward, I don't register the peculiarity of the inappropriateness until after the fact. People I don't know well have laughingly referred to my breast size and want to know if I've started leaking yet. Or whether or not we are massaging my perineum religiously. Recently, while I was asking if a restaurant was still open for lunch, a woman seated nearby started exclaiming, "Oh la la! Oh la la! Ah oui, ah oui! Oh la la!" If she hadn't been staring at my belly, I might have given her a high five for achieving spontaneous orgasm on a side-street cafe.
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