You know what’s neat? Being pregnant. I have two hearts, four lungs, twenty toes, four eyes; you get the picture. I have a little girl growing inside me. She moves around in there. Yesterday, I heard a loud noise, and then I actually felt her jump. Also, people are always telling you how great you look. I feel like I am walking around in some sort of a fat suit, but all day people talk about how I’m glowing and looking great. I know that after the baby comes my lustrous and shiny pregnancy hair will fall out and my skin will stop glowing and I’ll have tired eyes and under my clothes my nipples will be bleeding. That’s probably when you NEED to hear that you’re looking great, but no one says it then. They say it when you’re pregnant, and, in my case at least, feeling pretty awesome. I don’t mind the fat suit. I find my Fred Flintstone feet hilarious. I’m pregnant! I’m making another human being. No big deal.
One thing that I have learned, and did not expect, is how much people hate to hear pregnant women complain. I mean, they HATE it. When someone asks how it’s going and I — god forbid — do not answer THE WORLD IS FULL OF SPARKLING PUPPIES WITH UNICORN HORNS FOR TAILS I AM BRINGING FORTH LIFE! I AM BRINGING FORTH LIFE FROM MINE OWN WOMB!, and instead mention being tired a lot or how hemorrhoids sometimes bleed just because or the flames that come up from my stomach when I eat, they’re all, “Well, it’s all for good reason, though, isn’t it?” or something like that. As though, in mentioning my gas problems, I am implying that, given the choice, I would opt to lose both the gas AND THE BABY because it’s all too much bother.
What I have learned is that the only people you can complain to are people who are your very close friends who have had babies and people who GOT you pregnant. (AND ON YOUR BLOG, dammit.)
What was I talking about? I had a point to this, but I can’t remember what it was. That’s another thing. Pregnancy brain. I forget a lot of stuff. I make a lot of trips up and down stairs at work because I go up there to get something, get distracted, and come back down without said thing BUT ANNIE I AM NOT COMPLAINING IT IS AWESOME TO GET EXERCISE AND TO BE PREGNANT.
PS As there is no real point to this letter, I’m not certain how you will respond to it. I’m sure you’ll come up with something, though.
That does sound neat, but also exceedingly weird. Aside from the whole parasitic alien face-hugger vibe, the idea of never being alone (EVER, even when you’re by yourself) is a tad unsettling. It is the opposite of what my life has become. I live alone, I spend a lot of my free time alone, I get squirrelly when I have to be social past my predetermined tolerance levels. I do get lonely from time to time, but really, it isn’t so bad. It makes for good blogging. It is also a RELIEF. I believe that I may have at some point in my social adulthood garnered a reputation for quiet unselfconsciousness. This reputation is wholly undeserved. I am, in fact, highly self-conscious, and only achieve this seeming cool reserve by striving mightily to appear as if I do not give a shit. Oh but I do, Amy, I do. I expect to be judged every moment I spend in the sight of another human being, and therefore any relief I can get from this constant low-level paranoia is a welcome respite. So I live alone. Frequently I am also pantsless. That’s just an added bonus. Waistbands are the devil.
I’m sure you can relate, being all bulge-y down there. Any time you’d like to get together and kvetch about the restrictiveness of pants, let me know. During this time you may also feel free to complain about pregnancy to your heart’s content. I will gladly listen, as, I’m sure you well know, no one would be more receptive to hearing about how gross it is to be pregnant than me, your happily childless friend.
Now I know what I’m getting you for your birthday. Maternity jeans. They are my latest crusade. They are yoga pants on top, and jeans on the bottom. They are the inverse-mullet of the pants world. Also, they are SUPER flattering, because instead of belt loops and buttons around your middle, where you want to APPEAR slim, there is nothing but a thin piece of fabric. You’ll never want to take them off. They’re like wearing your pajamas at work.
The only cure I have found to self-consciousness is pregnancy, I’m sorry to tell you. I honestly just do not care what people think anymore. Pregnancy has made me super selfish. Jason likes to put it more gently, as Jason is wont to do, by saying that pregnancy has “helped [me] separate the wheat from the chaff.”
I used to be shy, and then in my early twenties I determined that being shy SUCKS, and so I worked on overcoming it. In my case, I often went over to a dark side where I felt the need to talk as much as possible when people were quiet. Just, you know, WHATEVER CAME INTO MY HEAD. This does not make for successful conversation, and so I spent a great deal of time after social interactions being convinced that I had offended everyone I’d spoken to in one way or another. This is tiresome and unproductive, and it stayed with me even after I learned to sometimes just be quiet.
Then I got knocked up, and everything changed. I very much doubt this is an exchange that has ANY useful advice for you. Sorry, pal.