Today, I was in the elevator waiting for my stop. I was with a man who was probably about 45 and a woman, age 35. She stood behind me holding a bag in front of her. She was a slender woman, attractive, too.
It’s not every day someone speaks in an elevator. I have heard louder libraries and places of worship. But the man spoke, driving a shard into the usual silence.
It’s a really bad time to be pregnant.
The other day Toby told me that he very nearly asked a woman during a really important off-site client meeting when she was due. Right before the words broke free, screaming into the air, he got a glimpse of the fact that she might not actually be pregnant.
“Dude, best not be talking to me.” I thought to myself. I turned to look at him. He wasn’t pregnant. I looked down to check to see if I was sticking my belly out or standing funny. I wasn’t. I looked behind me. She didn’t look pregnant, either.
Yes. Yes, it is.
I looked at her again. She was in great shape, which is why I didn’t notice at first glance. Her ankles were thin, her legs slender, her arms were covered in teh usual amount of insulation. But, low and behold, there was indeed a HUGE bulge there that had been out of my view because of what she held in front of her. I let out a sigh of relief for the man.
It’s really hot. It’s been tough.
How far along are you?
I’m due in November.
My wife went through a really hot summer pregnancy once. There were moments I thought she was going to kill me or someone.
The woman laughed and then we reached her floor. The guy congratulated her and she was on her way. I smiled, that’s all I knew to do.
Recently, I have thought about all the pregnant women around. I imagine that this year in particular has got to suck. And I have decided that should I ever get knocked up, I would like have it done in March. There is no way I’d want to deal with sweating profusely on a stinky subway while having some fleshy thing kick the shit out of my insides.