Walking down the sidewalk: “Wow! You look like you’re ready to pop.”
Crossing the street: “You look like you’re ready to pop.”
Waiting in line for the restroom: “You look like you’re ready to pop.”
In line at a bakery: “You look like you’re about ready to pop.”
In the elevator: “You look like you’re ready to pop.”
Paying for a meal at the airport: “You look like you’re ready to pop….you sure you’re allowed to fly?”
Getting out of a car: “You sure there aren’t twins in there?”
Walking around a Farmers’ Market: “Twins?”
Walking: “Gotta be twins, right?”
Waiting to cross the street: “Did they check to make sure you’re not having twins?”
Standing somewhere: “Twins?”
Walking somewhere: “Can’t just be one baby in there!”
Crossing the street: “Any time now.”
Getting into a Lyft: “Any time now.”
Leaving a restaurant: “Any time now, huh?”
At a health fair: “Must be due any time now.”
Walking into a lab: “Shouldn’t you be in L&D?”
Getting blood drawn: “You sure you’re in the right place?… shouldn’t you be in L&D?”
Waiting for my drink at Peet’s Coffee: “My wife, when she was in labor with our oldest, the nurse told me to step out of the room so she could check my wife’s cervix. Then BAM the doctor came in the room and BAM, his hand was right up there, no questions asked! Haha! No time for pleasantries!”
Walking to a meeting: “If it’s a boy, name it Maurice.”
Folks are just so clever! How do they even stand themselves?
Sometimes I’m told that I’m beautiful. I say thank you. Sometimes I get a knowing nod from a woman who’s been there. I nod back, in thanks for being seen and respected.
There are some things that are best understood through experience. Being a female in public is one of these things. I remember when I first learned what cat-calling was. My older sister and I were riding our bikes to a public pool in the heat of summer. I was repeatedly startled by honking horns as people drove past us.
After 5 or 6 jolts of auditory electric shock, I hollered at the offender “We’re not even in the street! We’re on the sidewalk!” They were honking because they thought we were in their way, right?
My sister laughed at me. She said, “No…they’re honking at me,” with a smirk. I just couldn’t comprehend how this was a good thing. She was 16. I was 10.
A year later, I was waiting to cross the street after school and an older white man with gray hair who looked rather like my grandpa, was alone driving a primer gray Oldsmobile or some such large vehicle. He was making a right turn. Suddenly, he shouts out of the passenger-side window, “Hey….nice tits.”
I was 11 years old. I was slapped with a wave of disorientation. I looked around, trying to figure out who he was talking to. What did he mean? Did anyone else hear him? Did he mean me? Why? No one had ever said anything like that to me before. I had been hit with some unidentified shrapnel of an explosive adult sexual world I was not yet part of. I was strangely implicated in something, the target of something unseen. I was seen by someone as something foreign to me. I, for a moment, was lost to myself.
I didn’t have “tits.” Or did I?
The body changes. And, without much warning, so does the world. Nowadays, I am hit with different kinds of shrapnel from people’s secret worlds in public, because, it would seem, I am public property. People inform me of the existence of my belly, its size and shape, how it compares to the rest of me, how proportional it is, what the sex of my child is, how I’m carrying, when I’m due, how far along I am, how big my baby is going to be, how hard the birth will be, how capable or incapable I appear to be of giving birth, how fertile I am, how sexual I am, how virile my husband is, how full my hands will be, and how my life is going to be now.
All this helpful information is announced to me by people I don’t know. They must be the experts. I must want their advice and opinions about a host of topics to do with some of the most intimate aspects of my life, right?
Of course I do.
I was leaving the grocery store yesterday, and someone walks by and noticing their temptation, spoke to it. “I’m sure you’re bombarded with commentary all day long, so I’m going to keep it to myself.”
Yes. Yes, I am. THANK YOU, person in the parking lot at the grocery store.
Now, I’m 34, and I’m 34 weeks pregnant. Cat-calling is no longer the same kind of bizarre experience. In fact, just the other day I was facing away from traffic, putting some snacks in my toddler’s stroller tray, and I was cat-called by some laborers in a white work truck. I turned halfway around to see what the fuss was about, and this time they were the ones struck with sudden disorientation. That sexy ass belongs to a gigantic pregnant lady. “Oh, I’m sorry, ma’am.” I know. At least y’all are funny!
So what now? I dunno. Let’s talk more about this! What has it been like for you? I’m going to be tweeting about the weird, funny, awkward, unfortunate, and wonderful experiences I get to have while being #pregnantinpublic from @_ebolaza. Follow me or tweet at me (however it works, I’m still a Twitter noob). I’d love to hear about your experiences!
