Never have a I seen so many pregnant people before as I have since I came to New York. Everyone, it seems, is pregnant. And riding public transportation. Chivalrous New Yorkers are constantly jumping at the chance to give up their seats to these rounded, pregnant women.
I was having a particularly bad day this week. I was stressed at work, anxious about my living situation, and had an overall icky feeling about life. I also happened to be wearing a new shirt from Ann Taylor Loft. When I first tried it on with a friend, we discussed the pros and cons to it’s empire waist, but decided that since it was flowy it actually had a slimming effect. WRONG. I had just gotten on the bus was standing by a pole, when a tiny little thing offered me her seat. I assumed it was because she was getting off at the stop we were coming to, but she didn’t get off. For three more stops, she didn’t get off the bus. I had an epiphany: she thinks I’m pregnant. She thinks I’m pregnant, and she has given me her seat. As embarrassing as it was, it would have been more embarrassing to try to correct the problem. So I counted the blocks and prayed for her stop to come.
Later that night, crying on the phone to my father, I blurted out my shameful experience. He asked why I assumed she thought I was pregnant. “Because I’m fat,” I sobbed. “Baby, you aren’t that fat.” THAT fat? Wrong answer, Dad. He tried to fix it, but it was too late. That one small adverb (and it is an adverb, I did the research) ruined my night. That fat. It rhymes. So does Weight Watchers. Well, not really, but it’s alliteration and that’s enough grammatical reason for me to get back on the wagon.
