Time to get on the blogosphere. Or open a twitter account
Today my aunt asked me if I am pregnant. Reason enough for above title you might argue. The rest of my family eagerly looks up from their dinner plates with half-smiles. I stubbornly swig at my glass of red wine. Glance at the bottom of it for a second, and then finish it with a gulp.
Now, I know better than to ask “Do I look pregnant to YOU?” I am 28 years old, the eldest of 3, and have developed what I fondly refer to as a “relationship ass.” Yes. It’s true. I have put on a few kilos since I last saw my family in May. Yes. Food has been my friend. No, I have not been working out religiously with Nazi-like fanaticism. I am not, however, nor do I plan on getting, pregnant. I was in fact mortified. Welcome to the winter of my very own discontent. This takes the proverbial death-by-chocolate cake. Actually, could I get some whipped cream with that please?
The look on my face must have been answer enough because my grandmother cheerfully changes the subject and moved on. Admittedly, I do not want to become one of those eternally young jokes nor the punch line of all baby-phobic anecdotes. Nor do I contrarily want my family, immediate or extended to give up on me. But I do not appreciate being called fat. A more polite implication of which- pregnant.
If I was with child would I keep it a secret? Or start my weekends on Thursdays with a cheeky Gin & Tonic, followed by red wine and loads of self pity? No. I would be celebratory, pious, sober (!) and family-oriented (whatever that means)
I am undecided in which direction to take my rant. Titles such as “The role of children in modern women’s lives” and “Pressures of being stick-thin enforced by society” pop into my head. I call my cousin over to my now ex-boyfriends house to help (read: watch) me pack. In fact, I’m throwing a mini pity-party and the world is invited.
Nostalgically I fold shirts, blankets, trinkets and memories (Side-note: Am I too old for toys and stuffed animals?) Books, souvenirs acquired on holidays all find a spot in my heart but not in my oversized carry-on bag. Why is every journey to the airport met with despair and suicidal thoughts? I become older than my years, swearing profusely and think of new ways to cheat AerLingus by sneaking on more kilos than I am allowed. God I could really use some ice-cream right about now.
I complain to him in a high-pitched, whiney voice that his mother asked me earlier if I am pregnant. It’s not until I finish stuffing the 7th pair of shoes into my handbag, muttering obscenities under my breath that I notice him staring at me expectantly waiting for an answer. I rest my case. FMYLIFE.COM!!