“So,” Jessica said, then paused for me to think about and accept this brilliant matchmaking thought of hers.
“He’s my friend. I don’t know why I’m not into him. But I’m pretty sure I’m not and don’t want to ruin the friendship.” I changed the subject. “Did you bring the maternity clothes?”
“Yes, they’re in my car.”
We walked over to Jessica’s car, which screamed “baby on board” even though she did not have the actual bumper sticker. Each window on the station wagon had a sun shield. Beside the large bag of clothes in the back seat was a car seat with spit-up stains surrounded by a sea of discarded Cheerios. I grabbed a pair of maternity pants out of the bag. They looked a bit like cycling bibs in that there was a wide elastic band above where the waistline should be. They actually looked pretty comfortable. How delightful it would be to not have to deal with buttons and zippers for a few months. It would be like living in yoga pants.
In February, I started wearing Jessica’s maternity clothes and putting a small pillow under my shirt. I also bought an “Empathy Belly,” a tool that sex education teachers use to teach kids the perils of teen pregnancy. It looked very realistic, but it was too early for me to be that big. Instead, I strapped a pillow onto my stomach and wore an undershirt over the pillow to be sure no one would see it. Then I put my maternity top over my undershirt. To complete the ensemble, I added a big jacket because I was paranoid that my stomach didn’t look real enough.
After the morning coffee rush, I went into the kitchen for my secret caffeine fix and almost ran straight into Sarah. Fortunately, I stuck my arms out. Otherwise, she would have been treated to a handful of fluffy belly. Sarah said, “Hey!” and reached forward toward my stomach. I grabbed her hands just in time.
“I want to feel your belly.”
“Are you kidding?” I asked.
“No, I want to feel him kick.”
“It’s not a ‘him,’” I said, switching topics.
“It’s a girl?”
“I don’t know. I don’t want to find out. There’s so few real surprises in life.”
“But what will we get you for the baby shower?”
Oh yeah, I forgot about the obligatory office baby shower. “Cash?”
“Yeah right. You should register at Babies ‘R’ Us,” Sarah said, ever helpful.
“Actually, I was thinking of registering at the bike shop and PetSmart.”
“Ha ha,” Sarah said, not laughing. “Target also has good stuff,” she said.
“Target sounds good,” I said, remembering that Target sells beer. I could exchange my baby gifts for about $500 in beer. I pondered whether $500 in beer was excessive as Sarah moved in again. I grabbed her arm.
“Come on, can’t I feel the baby kick?” she said, physically grappling with me to touch my stomach.
“No, it doesn’t kick yet. I think I have a lazy kid,” I said, pushing her hands away with my left arm and blocking my belly with my right.
“Can I feel your stomach?” she asked.
“Do you have a pregnancy fetish or something Sarah?”
“No,” Sarah said, “Everyone likes to feel a pregnant belly.”
“Seriously?” This is going to be a problem.
“Yes, you’ll see. Complete strangers in the mall will come up to you and rub your belly.”
“They better not,” I said.
“Why?”
Did I really need a reason? Probably not, but just in case I responded, “I don’t want anyone touching my belly, I’m ticklish.”
Sarah walked out, so I started to make myself some coffee. David walked in.
“Are you drinking coffee?” David asked.
“Decaf.”
“I think even decaf has a little caffeine in it. You should be careful.”
“I actually think the low birth weight sounds like a more comfortable delivery. I’m also snorting lines of coke to keep the kid really small.” I often say stuff like this to David when he acts concerned, because his concern is always forced and insincere. He states his concern, then tunes me out.
David confirmed his disinterest in my health, and that of my baby’s, by saying, “Well that’s nice Jennifer, did you finish drafting the
punies
?”
“Punies” is David’s super-cool slang for punitive damages. Punitive damages are only appropriate where a defendant acts with such wanton disregard that he should be punished in addition to paying compensatory damages to a plaintiff. The defendant in our case, which was one of my only non-subrogation files, was, at most, inadvertently negligent. We would be lucky to win our case, let alone obtain punitive damages. Consequently, I was not very enthusiastic about drafting a twenty page brief on the issue. Nevertheless, I think I could do it with a smile if David could just stop calling them punies. Every single day it’s, “How’s the motion for punies going?” Or, “Paragraph four on page seven of the puny motion is great, huh?” It really makes my skin crawl.
“The motion for PUNITIVE damages is almost complete, David. I’ll get it to you before the end of the day.” I said.
“Great, opposing counsel is going to cry when she sees our motion for punies.”
“Right,” I said.
“Hey Jennifer, are you still riding your bike?
“Yes.”
“Your stomach doesn’t get in the way?”
“No David, I sit on my ass.”
“Don’t you lean down?”
“Only when I’m trying to get aero, I’m just spinning around now and not racing.”
“Hey Jenna, what’s with all those drug-addicted cyclists?”
I hate when people ask me this. “The sport is actually pretty clean now,” I said.
“What about Armstrong and that Mormon with the tainted beef?”
“I think Lance should come clean about not really drinking Michelob Ultra and that Landis is a Mennonite and he was busted for testosterone. Contador had the tainted beef.” While I hated the topic, I loved correcting David.
“Have you ever taken testosterone or steroids?” David asked me, and he seemed serious.
“No, do you want me to pee in a cup for you?” I asked, grabbing a water cup.
David was no longer listening to me. His question was merely a segue to tell me about his steroid use. He said, “I took steroids after my neck surgery. I don’t know if I was stronger, but I was horny as hell. After I wore my wife out, I was ready to bend over the ninety-year-old nurse.”
I was about to throw up again, but fought it back since I was now past the morning sickness trimester. “That’s hot David. Thanks for sharing.”
When I got back to my desk, I had about twenty emails. I was only out for ten minutes, which means that an interoffice chain was being exchanged. Not surprisingly, it was a food-related chain. Every day, someone’s Cracklin’ Oat Bran or chocolate pudding gets stolen, setting off a chain of emails about how ridiculous it is that grown adults in a professional environment resort to stealing food. This particular email chain was a discussion about some unsuspecting new employee who placed a box of Fruit Roll-Ups in the kitchen cabinet, and found them all gone the next day. My file of food-related office emails was so extensive that I’d separated “stolen food” emails from other “theft related” emails. Some of my favorites are:
-
To whomever has eaten my half ham & cheese on a croissant sandwich, pretzels, fun size Snickers and Capri Sun, please replace it!
-
Dear person who took my lunch marked “Lauren” for the second time this month, I hope you enjoyed it!
(What’s the saying? Fool me once…)
-
Whomever took my ravioli from the kitchen, I would of shared it if you asked.
Would of? Is the contraction for that would’f?
-
Please do not drink my Propel Fitness Water. It is mine. YOU didn’t buy it. I did. MINE!
-To the person who took my Kashi Frozen Southwestern Chicken with Potatoes and Peas from the third shelf of the 5th floor kitchen. Not nice!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
(I think a 15th exclamation mark and more detail on the food would have got the point across better).
…and the best food email ever:
-
To the person who destroyed my pumpkin cheesecake pie (you know who you are): If you really wanted to try the pie you could have asked instead of acting like an animal and digging into something that’s not yours to dig into that other people worked hard at. You have made a lot of people angry. This is absurd. For those of you who didn’t see the pie, here is a picture.
(Seriously, she attached a picture.)
Now that I was starting to look pregnant, I decided to check out what was in store for mommy and baby in March and April.
Week Seventeen:
Mom:
Your secretions all over your body may increase, due to the increased blood volume. So if you are sweating more, have nasal congestion, or are suffering from increased vaginal discharge this is nothing to worry about and will go away after the birth of the baby.
Sexy!
Baby:
Your baby is forming brown fat deposits under his or her skin.
Fat is brown? I always pictured it being clear.
Week Twenty:
Mom:
You are halfway through your pregnancy! Sleep may be increasingly difficult now, as your belly grows. Try doing pelvic tilts and urinate before going to bed. Your belly button may pop out and stay that way as your uterus presses upwards. Some people will have trouble breathing as their lungs become cramped.
Is a pelvic tilt a sit-up?
Baby:
Your baby is up to ten ounces. Lanugo appears all over the baby’s body. This fine hair will remain until birth draws nearer. Some women get an ultrasound at twenty weeks and get their first peek at baby.
I’ll borrow Jessica’s ultrasound and show it around the office towards the end of January. I’m pretty sure no one will be able to tell that the creepy three dimensional fetus isn’t mine.
Week Twenty-Two:
Mom:
In the second trimester libido is usually increased. With the increase in blood flow and secretions in the vagina and clitoris, some women become orgasmic or multi-orgasmic for the first time.
No wonder David likes pregnancy sex, it was probably the first time he got a reaction from his wife.
Baby:
Develops eyebrows this week.
Baby raises eyebrows at parents to tell them to stop doing it so often.
Week Twenty-Five:
Mom:
Soon you will begin to see your practitioner more often.
Looks like I get to start missing work a little more often.
Baby:
Veins are visible through your baby’s skin, although it is quickly changing from transparent to opaque.
To recap, baby is transparent, veiny, hairy, and has brown fat deposits.
Toward the end of February, I replaced my stomach pillow with the Empathy Belly. The Empathy Belly was enough to scare any teenager into combining condom use with the pill and a diaphragm, if not complete abstinence. Of its many features, it added thirty to thirty-three pounds of weight in the stomach and boobs; put continual pressure on the abdomen and internal organs; changed the posture of your back by an increase in “lordosis” or “pelvic tilt;” shifted one’s center of gravity instigating a lower backache; simulated mild “fetal” kicking movements every ten minutes; created awkwardness, shortness of breath, increased body temperature and pressed on the bladder, causing frequent urination. The Empathy Belly simulated these effects through the use of a rib belt and strategic positioning of various weighted components. Here’s the kicker, it cost $500. Exorbitantly expensive for a test run at pregnancy, but a reasonable investment towards a twelve-week vacation. I bought it without hesitation, confident that I could recoup some of the belly’s costs on eBay after my pregnancy. Or, I could have a second and third kid with it.
* * *
Last weekend was the first Florida race of the season. Cycling didn’t start in earnest until at least March, but in sunny Florida, we got a head start. I was very excited to be racing after the long off-season even though I wasn’t in great form. My body seemed to be excited too, because I had to stop for two McShits on the way to the race. McDonald’s is my public restroom of choice because they’re everywhere, generally clean, and you don’t need a key attached to a cinder block to get into them. Once you get to the race, port-o-johns are the only option. You only need to get blue splash on your ass once to make the McShit a ritual.
The race was just outside of Tampa in San Antonio, Florida. San Antonio, Clermont and Ocala are virtually the only towns in Florida, south of Gainesville, with hills. Cyclists from Tampa, Orlando and even South Florida flock to them each weekend. Brenda, who lives midway between Tampa and Orlando, used to train in San Antonio religiously when I started riding, but she switched her loyalties to Clermont once I started beating her up the hills in San Antonio. I had been looking forward to racing against Brenda in San Antonio for the entire off-season, but when I lined up at the start, I noticed she was a no-show. My pre-race jitters immediately subsided, but I was disappointed, because San Antonio’s hilly race course heavily favors me over Brenda.
The road race course was a twelve-mile loop we were to complete five times. The organizers combined the women’s field with the Category 3 men, which made the race faster and more dangerous. Both men’s and women’s races are divided into categories; CAT 5, being the least experienced category for men, is often referred to as SPLAT 5 due to the prevalence of crashes by novices full of testosterone. Because there are fewer women cyclists, their novice category starts at a CAT 4 level. As cyclists race and accumulate results, they collect points which can be used to upgrade to CAT 3, CAT 2 and with enough points coupled with approval from USA Cycling’s regional czar, to CAT 1. The cycling rule book actually contains a chart that dictates the number of points available for each placement in a road race, time trial and criterium race. It did not take long after returning from my face-plant to CAT up to a 1 last season. A cyclist’s category level is printed on their annual cycling license. My goal for this season is to trade-in my CAT 1 license for a professional license.