That's what the super observant hair stylist at the fancy pants salon told me yesterday. Actually, it was more like "If you don't mind me saying, you're really big for being due in October."
"Well, if you're comparing me to your dick, then yes I am."
Yeah, I should have said that and walked the fuck out. But since my head was already sopping wet, I gave him a few stinging replies, sat silently enjoying my stack of rag mags and hot tea, and left him a crappy tip.
Truthfully speaking, I am big. I'm a big, tall pregnant woman. I'm nearly 30 weeks into my 3rd pregnancy and I'm right on track to gain my complimentary 60lbs. I see my thighs, ass, and belly everyday, thank you very much. I know they are big.
But I'm not paying shdkfhdkfhdjaf dollars to have someone tell me that. Or that "I wear it well because I'm tall."
Oh gee. Thanks.
Had I just spent an incredibly unromantic getaway at the beach with my own extremely eloquent husband for my daughter's birthday, capped off by the last seven days alone with my kids who like to bless me with markers, food, and poo remnants, I probably wouldn't have cared. But lately, I've been feeling a bit defeated.
So instead of being "sting-your-balls" sarcastic, I just sat and seethed, mainly about how dehumanzing the process of bearing children has become in society, unless you look like a pregnant Angelina Jolie or Nicole Kidman, of course.
Apparently all this fat and fluid is supposed to buffer the rude comments of the masses. Or, at least help you squash the stupidity right out of them.