Pregnant Women Are Smug

You guys (and by "guys" I actually, really, mean "gals"), I have a serious talent – I can tell when you are pregnant. I know it long before you tell anyone about it. Call it my own personal 6th sense if you will, but I am rarely wrong. I place my wager as early as possible and then weeks, often months later, you’ll announce what I already knew. Now, I know this won’t make me any real money. There are no Vegas odds for me to bet on. But I am really damn good at this (and I just got confirmation on my latest bet – pay up … says me to no one because the only payment I ever get is the victory of knowing I’m right. But, hey, I’ll take it. I really, really love being right).

How do I know? Is it your growing belly? Perhaps, though not generally. Despite the tabloids latching onto a celebrity’s “bump” (which was more likely caused by a heavier than usual lunch … which, in a celebs case, probably just means they actually ate lunch at all for a change), that’s not the earliest giveaway. It’s more subtle than that. It’s the way you dress – no, you’re not showing yet, but you are wearing roomier clothing. It’s the way you’re always drinking water when I used to see you drinking Diet Coke. It’s the way I see you touching your stomach more … even though it doesn’t yet “look” pregnant. But, many times, it’s because you’re so damn smug.

Now I know I’m going to take a lot of shit for saying that. Especially given that some of my very favorite people in the world are pregnant right now – at this very moment – including my very own (and very beloved) sister. But hear me out on this anyway (besides, I’m not talking about YOU. I know, you don’t believe me because, honestly, so much IS focused on YOU right now, but I’m honestly not. But you – and everyone else in the entire world that I know right now – being pregnant has got me thinking).

As someone who’s never been pregnant I have to admit that I, of course, don’t really know what happens to you emotionally, on the inside, when you pee on that little stick and some lines pop up or it says “Pregnant” or whatever that little stick does when you’ve got a bun in the oven. But, I do have 35 years experience watching you and seeing how it changes you on the outside. And that change is noticeable almost immediately. Yes, it’s all the things I mentioned above, but it’s so much more. The one thing that’s really the dead giveaway is the way you talk. Within days of getting a positive pregnancy reading (and sometimes even prior to) your demeanor changes. You get a little more serious and reserved without even noticing it. You talk more long term and are more concerned about things you never gave a second thought about before. You don’t find my snarky quips and unabashed sarcasm nearly as funny as you used to (even though I KNOW I’m just as hilarious as ever). You’re more peaceful in a way but often times you’re also much more emotionally charged (hormones, right? Who’s with me?) It’s lots of little changes really, but if you pay attention to them like I do you’ll soon figure it out – this smug chick is pregnant!

Okay, there I said it (and then said it again). You sound smug. All of a sudden you start talking like Mother Theresa. You’re all concerned about what’s right and what’s just and talking about craving a utopian style society even though we all saw you smoke pot and five finger discount some CDs back in college. I guess what I’m saying is this – I know you’re pregnant because you stop acting entirely like “you” (to some degree anyway. Some preggos suffer far worse smugness afflictions than others). But, honestly, and I mean this in all sincerity (and I’m totally not just saying this to avoid a third-trimester lynch mob on my doorstep), it’s not really your fault. You change because you’re preparing for motherhood. You realize it’s time to crack down and be serious. After all, this is another human life we’re talking about here – it’s SERIOUS business. But, mostly, you change because society has modeled for you what it considers to be “appropriate” pregnant woman behavior and, not wanting to stray from the strict norms set forth by EVERY OTHER pregnant woman you’ve ever seen – EVER – lest you be labeled an unfit future mother, you do … and most importantly “say” … all the things you’re supposed to.

What types of things you ask? I find this video (which, okay, you caught me, I stole the title from to create this post) sums it up pretty nicely.

Okay, so you don’t ALL talk in clichés. But we’ve all heard them … a million times … and it’s that sort of gibberish that makes for great pregnant lady fodder. But, hey, what other choice do you have? You can’t really admit to everyone that you’re ONLY having that third child because your husband is crazy obsessed with having a boy this time around, can you? How will that look when it turns out it’s a girl … TWIN girls … after all? Okay, yeah, so sometimes you sound a little smug and self-important but, eh, it’s your right goshdarnit (see how I kept it clean for you – that’s because I know you want your baby to grow up in a nice place, not one that curses at the Lord) – after all, you can’t drink for 9 months (by the way I have some great evidence proving otherwise but it really doesn’t matter, you still can’t do it because you’ll be shunned by every person in America), you swell up to the size of an RV, your lady parts will never look quite right again, the entire world feels like they can butt into your personal business and tell you all the things you’re doing wrong and, at the end of it all, you give birth to a really painful but gorgeous baby who is, let’s be honest here, not at all grateful for what you just went through and will suffer through on their behalf for the rest of your life.

So, okay, fine. Enjoy your 9 months of smugness while you can. I get it. I understand. And I still love you. But, come on, tell me the truth. You kind of hate it that you HAVE to buy an ugly minivan, right? And, fess up, you don’t REALLY believe that a natural childbirth is the best option, do you? But, hear me on this one – I know you can’t tell off that bitchy woman at work who’s always telling you what a horrible person you are if you don’t breastfeed for at least 18 months and puree all your baby food yourself, etc, etc – you know, because that’s not the kind of behavior that’s acceptable for pregnant women. But I’m under no such limitations … and I have nooo problem whatsoever doing that for you.

See ladies. I DO have your (aching) back!

Note to men everywhere: The viewpoints stated here will, no doubt, ostracize me from a good portion of the entire population of women everywhere. But, as bad as saying everything I said here is for me, a fellow woman, trust me when I say that if you were to ever say any of this, as a man, it would be far, far, far worse for you. So don’t. Just don’t. We already know you feel the same way so why dig that hole you’re already in any deeper, okay?

Breaking Pointe (and Breaking My Back)

On my third date with GAR we went mini golfing. He looked so cute and my nerves were high so I did what I always do in these types of situations – I made a total ass out of myself. I flailed my club wildly, fumbled with my brightly colored ball and landed it in some really tricky spots. As I tried to putt the wayward ball back towards the hole I stood on some rocks for better leverage and then, as I’m prone to do, tripped and nearly fell into the water hazard. Thankfully though GAR was there to prevent this from happening and he pulled me back to safety – 3 different times. I’m sure he must have thought it was a fake out move … that I was only pretending to be hopelessly clumsy so that he’d be forced to “rescue” me. Classic early date material. But then we went to dinner and I spilled and entire cup of marinara down the front of my cream colored sweater. And I’m pretty sure that by then he had figured it out: This is not a desperate ploy for attention … this woman is clearly devoid of any and all traces of grace.

And so I did what any gal in this position would do – I never called him again. Somehow, miraculously, this man still wanted to talk to me – he called and emailed and texted … and yet I ignored him … for an entire year. And I thought that would be just long enough for him to forget how completely uncoordinated I am. I could get a fresh start. Try again. Not make a fool of myself this time around.

So 13 months later I called him up and invited him out to dinner again. And it went awesome. Then we went for beers at the bar next door and I spilled all 20 ounces of mine all over GAR … and then I leapt to my feet to get napkins … which resulted in me tipping his over as well – into his lap. I guess he found that charming because now we’re married. The end.

Just kidding – we’re still a looooong way away from the end of this story (and you should really know me better than that by now). But I guess my point is this – while my lack my lack of grace is the often the subject of playful barbs at my expense it’s never really bothered me that I am missing all basic skills of coordination and steady control. After all, I still got the guy, right? So what if I’m spastic and my movements are completely uncontrolled? Other than ruining every piece of clothing I’ve ever owned by spilling something on it, snagging it when I bump into something or just generally scuffing it in a manner that I can’t clearly identify, how does this negatively harm my life? It hasn’t. It doesn’t. It won’t. Unless I want to pursue a career in dancing or something ridiculous like that (cue the waltz, or maybe the tango. Or, I don’t know, what’s another dance? I’m not so familiar with this sort of thing. What music do they play during a ballet? Something Black Swan-ish maybe? But without the bulimia and Natalie Portman cutting herself. Thanks).

Okay, maybe I’ve built it up too much. After all, I’m not really considering dancing on a professional level (I can’t even stomach watching “Dancing with the Stars” so it’s clearly not a passion of mine), but I have been taking ballet classes … or really, to be more specific, barre classes.

At this point you might be asking yourself “Why? What would possess this clumsy awkward woman to do such a thing?” Well I have one word for you – Groupon. I do love myself a sweet deal. But that’s only half of it. The other half is – The CW Network. And if you’re now saying “Aren’t you 35? Isn’t that a little old to be watching anything on CW? Do you have no taste level at all?” You’re right. It’s despicable. And it’s totally GAR’s fault. Over the summer he got hooked on this show called “Breaking Pointe” – the “pointe” being a literary wink at the fact the show follows the professional (but mostly the personal) lives of several ballerinas who are part of a highly regarded company in Salt Lake City. I have no idea what implored him to watch this show in the first place but he quickly got sucked into watching petty people discuss their self-made problems (with the occasional ballet number thrown in on the side) and it became our summer tv guilty pleasure (we have one each summer and I’m less proud of some than others. Worst summer ever: 2009’s “I’m a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here.” I’m still shaming myself over that one).The “characters” in the show (it’s supposedly “reality” but, honestly, who’s buying that?) were vapid and actually a little boring. But it nonetheless inspired me to get bangs (it turns out they don’t look as good on me as they do on someone who weighs 90 pounds) and gave me the fantasy that I too could try my hand at a plie or two. After all, I do have photos of myself as a child decked out in a tu-tu at recitals. Did I need to quit ballet at age 6? Maybe I could have unlocked some hidden potential … maybe I still can!

Spoiler alert – I can’t. But it goes beyond my lack of ability. Much like many things in life, my barre class is nothing like I expected. I was picturing ladies rockin’ some hot legwarmers while they gracefully bend, dip and twirl – all with the barre as support. I thought that, if nothing else, I could hold onto that barre with a grip stronger than the jaws of life and keep myself from falling flat on my ass. But it’s not that simple … and we weren’t doing any of those things I imagined. Instead I found myself in some sort of twisted fitness boot camp where the barre hardly ever comes into play unless you’re using it to pull your entire body weight up again after you’ve crumpled to the ground in exhaustion as the instructor cries out for 10 more leg kicks while you’ve got a tension band binding your ankles together.

Where are the pretty pink flats? The sequins? The slicked back hair? The tulle? I have never cried out for anything so girly in my whole life but, for the love of all that’s holy, where are the leotards? Talk about false advertising.

Instead I’m suffering my way through another 50 crunches before using the barre as support for some sort of sick modified standing push-up, my newly sheared bangs slick and sticking to my forehead thanks to all the sweat, as I accidentally slide into the person next to me as my palms lose traction … or kick them during our tension band exercises … or fall on them during the lunges. Hey listen - I can handle tough workouts. I'm no stranger to pain. But I wasn't looking for this ... I wanted to feel dainty and lithe and, at the very least, just a smidge sophisticated. But how am I ever going to get more graceful if we haven’t even attempted a single pirouette? Still, unlike 6-year-old me, I’m not quitting yet. Nope. Not until I’ve completed my last 4 classes. Because, let’s face it, I’d rather suffer through this than let a perfectly good Groupon go to waste.

But, damn it, next week I am totally rockin’ some legwarmers. If I'm going to suffer through this I'm going to do it in high ballerina style!