Sean: You all set?
S: Great, see you in…
We had agreed we’d hit the gym tonight. I was taking the first leg.
Me: I’m just going to do 40-45 minutes or so and then run to the store. I just have to go change.
I ran upstairs and grabbed a sports bra and t-shirt. I debated the pants versus shorts issue, my legs were shaved, but I wasn’t sure if I could find shorts that would feel right riding below my belly. Pants it was. I pulled on a pair of bright blue yoga pants. They felt incredible and for once the ties of the waistband weren’t hanging awkwardly in my crotch. I peeked in the mirror quickly to make sure the shirt covered my belly. Check. Done.
Me: Ok, babe. I’m heading out.
He was smiling at me.
Me: Do I look ok?
Sean: You look incredible. Have fun.
Me: Ok, babe. Thanks, I will.
I stopped in the bathroom downstairs to check the mirror once more, just to make sure nothing was hugging me weird. I walked out the door to the sound of Briar running to Sean saying she had a ball and could they throw it, Avery squealed, “A’throw it, a’throw it!” The walk to the car was exhilarating, the feel of the ground beneath my running shoes, the starry sky overhead, and the familiar flutters of excitement before a workout. I smiled thinking of the ultrasound yesterday, watching that perfect little body twisting and flipping to the delight of the sonographer, like a dolphin at Seaworld. She and I were going to work out together and my joy in that was intoxicating.
The Y was packed, but I was undeterred, I circled the parking lot and slipped into a spot in the most remote corner. I hopped out of the car, shrugging my shoulders as other cars zipped and revved vying for closer spots, “no sense getting upset about a distant spot when you come to work out,” I thought. I walked the 150 yards to the doors and breezed in, a happy, fit pregnant woman. I smiled at the man on his cell phone outside and the teens in the lobby, they all returned my smile. I was on top of the world.
I waited in line to swipe the card on my key ring. The woman behind the counter scowled at me as she took the keys. “I’m not sure which is mine and which is my husband’s. Guess it’ll be easy to tell in a minute.” I was chuckling. She was scowling harder.
“23,” it came at me like a wet branch in the face on a late night walk.
“Excuse me?” I asked.
“23. You are 23, your husband is number 22.” She said it as if my not knowing suggested I was a lower life form and then flung the keys at me.
I was stunned, but still happy to be at the Y. A couple looked at me, they both flashed warm smiles and I smiled back shrugging, they shook their heads. The friendliness, or lack thereof, of the desk staff at the Y is legendary. I turned and headed to the bathroom. Passing the mirror I smiled, loving the hair cut and feeling proud to have gotten out. I went in to the stall sat down and looked at my shoes and that’s when I saw it.
Suddenly a montage of all the people I’d smiled at raced through my mind, the disdain of the desk clerk, the couple. My cheeks burned and I was shaking my head. Two mirrors and a once over from Sean and we hadn’t noticed that my freaking pants were on inside out.
Pregnancy ditziness is fine, but my god, pants on inside out? Doesn’t that border on incompetent?