It all starts out innocently enough. You're getting ready to attend a party. You get dressed up in the only casual, yet stylish dress you own, that you bought last month on vacation, because it was the one girly thing that you think looked good on you since pushing out the three kids that run you ragged all day.
You're even wearing black underwear, and even made yourself feel moderately sexy enough to get it on with your husband before finally getting dressed for the party.
You show up fashionably late, get confused by a 10-year long inside joke that you thought was true, but laugh it off. You get introduced around to people you've met briefly before, when it happens. A woman, who you last saw in a drunken stupor when she was turning 40, to whom you kindly say, "I think we've met before", says in return, "Oh, I guess I didn't recognize you since you're pregnant."
*CRASH* *SCREECH* *EXPLOSIONS*
The gracious party host quickly, and discreetly as possible, tells her you're not pregnant, as you wave your open palm over your three young children's heads, and say, "No, I have three kids. Not pregnant."
Your disbelief that this has happened to you - AGAIN - keeps you from coming up with witty comebacks like, "Here are my three reasons why I'm fat. What's your excuse for being a bitch?" or "You probably don't remember me since the last time I saw you, I think you were dry humping a guy's leg."
You want to turn around, walk out the door and crumble into a ball, sobbing. But you put on your stone face, wait for your husband to arrive to the party from parking the car, finding the briefest of moments to glare at him and tell him not to joke with you at all, because this day already sucks.
You wait until getting home to sob like a baby.
You see, I'm not fat enough that people can just write me off as a big girl. After three kids, though, I've got just enough of a belly that makes people think I'm expecting. Again. (No such luck, I'm trying to wear down my husband on that, then maybe people won't wrongly ruin my day.)
As a SAHM of three, I barely have time to squeeze in a shower every other day, and I count wrestling the kids into their car seats and a jaunt through Target a great workout. Every mother of more than one would agree with me here.
I also have genetics going against me, for which I spewed out to my husband as I was sobbing. But that's a whole back story for another time. Let's just say, bellies (apparently) run in my family.
There was a time, I remember fondly, that the greatest insult ever bestowed upon me (more than once) was my resemblance to Chelsea Clinton. And hearing those comments in the mid-to-late-90s was not a good thing. Nowadays, I would be overjoyed with that sentiment.
Hearing from a virtual stranger that I'm pregnant? Well, let me just say that if, as a woman, you've never experienced that situation, but you can imagine how it feels? Take that feeling, multiply it by a thousand, while ripping your heart out and shoving a piece of fondant-draped cake in your mouth, and you're only scratching the surface of the pain that I still feel in my heart.
If you're a guy, there is no comparable situation that I can offer you. What I can do is give you this nugget of advice, and it's been said before: Unless you actually, physically see with your own two eyes, a baby emerging from the vagina, please don't ever mention a woman's pregnancy unless she offers it up first. Because if she doesn't, it probably doesn't exist.
And bitches that say something about a pregnancy that is not confirmed? Learn to keep your mouth shut. Go dry hump something.
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