It happened yet again. The sly look, the understanding nod and the final question, “are you pregnant?”
I squirm in embarrassment but stoically put on a ‘don’t care’ air and say, “Oh, no, it is my tummy.”
There I get my satisfaction, a revenge of sorts for publically commenting on a private part (a part I hold sacred, for it doesn’t diminish …and it held two wonderful human specimens in its folds…or pinnacles to be more specific).
To see the discomfort of the person who asked the question, is a pleasure…They go overboard with their apologies, their explanations, some of which makes me want the earth to rip open at that instant and swallow me up along with the culprit.
Thankfully, all this lasts only for a few minutes, these remarks don’t even leave a lasting impression on my state of mind (like my husband and some close friends would want it to be). For none of this gets me to budge from my state of laziness, the comfort in being the same me with the same protruding tummy…