Well, there is no denying it. I’ve entered the unmistakable last lap of the race. My form is out the window, my pace irregular and a steam of anger seems to rise as each stride has me cursing having ever entered the damn race. This is not to say that I am not rapturously in love with this amazing little spitfire growing in my belly or that I would turn the hands of time back and say, “Know what? Two is fine.” I am just sick of being pregnant.
Today, dressed in a nice pair of slacks, a flirty purple XL non-maternity t-shirt with fluttery cap sleeves and black pumps, I felt cute. The hair worked, falling just so and my eyeliner went on without mishap. I even managed to grab a coat that was absent any of those indistinguishable, parent-of-toddler smears. Despite all of the aforementioned, I could not help myself from walking in a limp mule gait that seemed to be accompanied by a flashing sign overhead reading, “Sore cooter.”
I cannot believe I just typed the word “cooter.”
See? It’s another sign of this stage of pregnancy, at least for me. I stop all self-censoring. Walking past Sean’s desk today, which coincidentally is by his partner’s desk and two of his employees, I said, “Doesn’t seem fair that at the most miraculous and sacred of times in a woman’s life she suddenly takes on significant traits normally associated with working girls who’ve been ridden hard and put away wet a few too many times.” I heard the groans behind me, but all I could think as I held a hand on the lowest section of my belly was, “Is it possible she has lodged an important organ ahead of her to sort of clear the way for her exit?”
I am a burping, wincing, irritated lump…bump. Ugh. Now, I suppose that refraining from wearing heels might help things a bit. Slowing down my work schedule wouldn’t be the worst thing. Pampering myself with a hair cut and highlights on Saturday would likely be a huge help. So, I’ll do all of those thing, but I have a sneaking suspicion that even with flippy hair, kicky shoes and a clear plate, I am still going to be walking like an overzealous dude ranch initiate.