Post by maggiesara on May 15, 2014 11:03:31 GMT -5
Back in the day -- when "pregnant" was a dirty word -- women were sometimes said to be "in an Interesting Condition." I am indeed in an Interesting Condition: My surgery left me with a hernia that looks exactly, and I mean exactly, like ...oh, like I'm about seven months gone. In the club. Up the spout. With a bun in the oven. Pregnant.
On the one hand, this is not something I like. It makes clothes a real pain -- because while the rest of me is about a size 12 at this point (and can I say? FREAKING FREAKING AMAZING), my waist is massive, so elastic waistbands are still
the order of the day. And, more seriously, it's starting to have a pretty serious impact on my posture. It's pulling me forward and that, combined with the fact that surgery left me with no abdominal muscles at all, means I'm slouching badly. Well, these things can be dealt with.
But the flip side to the Interesting Condition is the incredible amount of good will it generates for me. I'm not just talking about the seats I get on the subway, which thank you. I'm talking about the mean-looking, tattooed, knife-carrying gang-bangers who step aside for me on the street and say "Hey there, little mama." I'm talking about the desperately hassled, exhausted, stressed-out moms pushing double strollers who flash me a "We're in this together" smile. The total strangers -- and all the people I've mentioned have been total strangers -- who wish me good luck as I pass them on the street, or call out "Congratulations!" I will actually miss that, once the Condition has been taken care of.
In the "meh" category is the fact that not a day goes by that I don't wind up in some medium-uncomfortable conversation about the Condition. Uncomfortable because it involves my telling one lie after another. So last night, I'm on the subway, and a woman asks me if it's a boy or a girl. I say "Ummm....we've decifded not to tell anyone." She asks why. (shit) I say something about how my husband's family has been pressing for a boy, so we just decided to keep it a secret. She says I can tell her. OY. OY. OY. Anyway, I get out of that one, not without leaving some skid marks, and it becomes clear that the man she's with, whom I had assumed was her husband or boyfriend, is in fact her son. No WAY, I say. How old are you? She says she's 48, and I say wow, that's amazing, she could pass for early 30s, which is true.
And then, natch, she asks how old I am. DOUBLE shit. I now have to come up with an age that would allow me, credibly, to be pregnant, but would not strain my credibility to the breaking point. I think fast. "Uhhhh....44," I say brightly. "You're kidding," she says -- and of course, I feel like I've been totally exposed for the fraud that I am. And then her son (who is about 30) says "Forty-four? Whooo-EEE, you looking GOOD, baby! I woulda said 36, 37 at the very most."
Ladies and gentlemen, I am 54.
54 and SINGING SINGING SINGING ALL DAY LONG
On the one hand, this is not something I like. It makes clothes a real pain -- because while the rest of me is about a size 12 at this point (and can I say? FREAKING FREAKING AMAZING), my waist is massive, so elastic waistbands are still
the order of the day. And, more seriously, it's starting to have a pretty serious impact on my posture. It's pulling me forward and that, combined with the fact that surgery left me with no abdominal muscles at all, means I'm slouching badly. Well, these things can be dealt with.But the flip side to the Interesting Condition is the incredible amount of good will it generates for me. I'm not just talking about the seats I get on the subway, which thank you. I'm talking about the mean-looking, tattooed, knife-carrying gang-bangers who step aside for me on the street and say "Hey there, little mama." I'm talking about the desperately hassled, exhausted, stressed-out moms pushing double strollers who flash me a "We're in this together" smile. The total strangers -- and all the people I've mentioned have been total strangers -- who wish me good luck as I pass them on the street, or call out "Congratulations!" I will actually miss that, once the Condition has been taken care of.
In the "meh" category is the fact that not a day goes by that I don't wind up in some medium-uncomfortable conversation about the Condition. Uncomfortable because it involves my telling one lie after another. So last night, I'm on the subway, and a woman asks me if it's a boy or a girl. I say "Ummm....we've decifded not to tell anyone." She asks why. (shit) I say something about how my husband's family has been pressing for a boy, so we just decided to keep it a secret. She says I can tell her. OY. OY. OY. Anyway, I get out of that one, not without leaving some skid marks, and it becomes clear that the man she's with, whom I had assumed was her husband or boyfriend, is in fact her son. No WAY, I say. How old are you? She says she's 48, and I say wow, that's amazing, she could pass for early 30s, which is true.
And then, natch, she asks how old I am. DOUBLE shit. I now have to come up with an age that would allow me, credibly, to be pregnant, but would not strain my credibility to the breaking point. I think fast. "Uhhhh....44," I say brightly. "You're kidding," she says -- and of course, I feel like I've been totally exposed for the fraud that I am. And then her son (who is about 30) says "Forty-four? Whooo-EEE, you looking GOOD, baby! I woulda said 36, 37 at the very most."
Ladies and gentlemen, I am 54.
54 and SINGING SINGING SINGING ALL DAY LONG
