Guys, I was mean to an old lady on an elevator. It’s official–I’m a bitch. I was headed to my doctor’s office for my weekly pre-natal visit, and four others were waiting for the elevator with me, including an old woman who was wearing socks with sandals (the EXACT same shade of beige, which was impressive). Her beige socks were folded down at the ankles like a little girl’s socks, and I kept staring at them as we waited. When the elevator doors opened, she immediately instructed the man standing next to me to hold the door open for the people getting off. He looked at her and paused for a moment before obliging. It was how she said it, not what she said, that gave him pause. She was demanding and borderline rude. She thanked him for doing it, but her tone wasn’t particularly appreciative. Once we were on the elevator, she stared at me, and guys, I knew it was coming. I felt it.
“Are you carrying twins?”
She grinned at me, and I still can’t decide if she thought she was funny or if she really, genuinely thought maybe I was. I am big, and she isn’t the first to ask me, so it’s plausible she thought I really was carrying more than one kid. (NOTE: About 3 in 100 births result in twins, so it isn’t super common.)
I looked at her for a moment and tried to collect myself. I tried to muster up a smile or nice comment. But you know what? I couldn’t. I’d had it. I’m bombarded by comments about my size and my body, and these comments have been slapping me in the face for months. So I decided screw it–she had it coming. I let her have it.
First, I rolled my eyes in exaggerated, teenager fashion. “No, I’m not. There’s one in here, which is why you shouldn’t ever ask that question. I know I’m big. I look and feel big.”
She started to say something and I continued anyway.
“When you ask that question, you make pregnant women who may already be feeling pretty terrible about their bodies even worse.” She tried to interrupt me, and I shook my head and continued. “No. Just don’t. In the future, don’t ask it. It’s rude and inappropriate.” I could hear her stammering as I walked off the elevator.
While waiting for my appointment, I replayed it over in my head. I cringed. I didn’t feel any better after reprimanding her, despite thinking that I might. I know she was probably just making conversation, and that was how she decided to do so. Most people don’t mean harm. They try to make conversation and my pregnant state is the easiest topic, of course. When people see me, I’m sure it’s the first thing they notice–I can’t fault them for that. I’m sure most people have good or the right intentions. But I’m just SO over it. I’m still a person, and quite frankly, I’m tired of talking about pregnancy and how big my belly is. I’m also tired of other people talking about my body like it’s acceptable for them to do so.
Pregnant women’s bodies (female bodies in general) should not be appropriate conversation-starters. Don’t touch me. Don’t tell me I’m big. Don’t ask me if I’m carrying twins. Don’t ask me if I’m due tomorrow. Just don’t. Stop staring. Stop feeling sorry for me. Treat me like a person, not a freak of nature. Some women love being pregnant and maybe they welcome these kinds of comments and questions. I’m not one of those women. I struggle during pregnancy, and I struggle with my body image during pregnancy. I’m hard enough on myself, and I certainly don’t need people, strangers particularly, adding to my anxiety and insecurities.
I wonder if I ruined beige-socks lady’s day. I feel kinda bad about it. But I also hope that maybe she won’t ask that question again. Maybe I at least made her think twice about what she says to a pregnant woman. Maybe I spared another pregnant chick from that dumb, insensitive question. If so, I guess it was worth it.