I'm Coming Out

10-8-09

She extends her manicured hand, “Hi, I’m Lisa. Due February 20th. Girl.”

I shake. “Hi. Kt. Due February 1st. Don’t know.” I stumble over my tale of the magic envelope which still remains on my desk, which could at any moment, at the slightest tear, unlock Purvis’ gender mystery.

We go around the circle of 4, giving our preg-stats before our pre-natal Pilates teacher arrives.

I am the most pregnant here date-wise, but Lisa looks months more pregnant than me. She has the smooth round bump that I covet and the accompanying sway-back that I don’t. Lisa is the most Sex and the City of the women in class, this my first formal entrance into the pregnancy industrial complex. The other 2 women are low-key semi-hippie Southeast ladies who—gasp—look my age or—gasp—a year or 2 my senior. Before attending this class, I hadn’t considered that I might be the elder of the group, but now that I am here, I feel a slight relief that I am not doing kegels among the young and bouncy. Mr. Crud points out that the spa where I’m taking the class isn’t exactly targeted at the young and bouncy.

I start to contemplate further adventures in preg-land. All my books tell me that each new pregnancy class, be it yoga or childbirth preparation brings opportunities for new friendships. As we leg lift our saddlebags away in Pilates, I wonder if any of these women will become partners-in-pregnancy and newborn commiseration. Lisa is not likely. She reminds me too much of the popular girls from middle school. Nice to your face, but behind closed doors let the cutting begin. Women like Lisa simultaneously scare me and make me want to please them just so that I will be the one to bask in the glory of their snarky light. The hippie-ish women don’t seem quite my speed either though maybe they are just shy. Where are my aging rockers? My ladies of the wine glass? A lot of pressure for a mere pre-natal Pilates class, I know.

In a way I look forward to being with other pregnant ladies, to sharing rolled eyes at the constant fucking heartburn and midnight trips to the bathroom. (My trip is currently a long haul to the basement while our bathroom is being remodeled. What I do so that Purvis will never know the horror of the previous owner’s penchant for peeling linoleum and inability to do any home improvement project that exceeds the half-assed benchmark.) But I’m a terrible joiner. Even when it’s an activity like writing or yoga or feminism that I love and truly believe in. Witness Wordstock, a local literary extravaganza held a few minutes from my humble abode. Writers and enthusiastic readers converge on the Portland Convention Center for 2 days of readings, workshops, and an endless line of literature-related booths. And will I attend this event so custom-made for a writer like me? No way. Why? I have a hard time explaining. On one hand I get depressed being around so many aspiring writers. There are millions of us. I am deluding myself if I ever think that I’ll get published and make any sort of living out of this writing game. On the other hand, I am snobby: so pathetic are all the yearning smiles, all the small talk and name dropping of publications. (Perhaps if I had my own record of publication to name drop, I’d be a bit more amenable.) I don’t like to stick out, but I do like to feel unique and joining these groups based on writing or pregnancy make me feel alienated if I don’t immediately feel a sense of kinship and belonging, a feeling which usually only comes quickly after a martini or two. (Oh martinis, how I miss thee.)

So, per usual, I will bring more drama to my Pilates class than the average bear.

Yesterday in the locker room one of my buddies turns to me. “You’re looking more round than the last time I saw you,” says BJ, the 70-something swimmer who gives me hope for an active old lady-hood.

“That’s because I’m pregnant,” I say.

The other buddies offer their congrats and pepper me with questions about whether I am feeling sick (“Nope, I’m past that stage now.”) and craving pickles and ice cream (“Nope, just normal food and a lot of it.”).

I tell Mr. Crud. “I was outed.”

“Me too. In the main office. My boss said something.”

“Everyone was cool, right?” I ask.

“Yeah, everyone was really nice. I don’t know why I still feel weird about it.”

“I do too.”

I am getting more comfortable with being pregnant and coming to terms with the fact that I am starting to look pregnant, but still there’s the nagging fear that spreading the news will jinx us. Sometimes I tell somebody of my pregnancy and immediately imagine telling them that we’ve had a miscarriage—technically a stillbirth at this stage in the game. The thought doesn’t instantly send me into a terror spiral. It’s more like a snag in a sweater. Plus there’s the added dimension of having to talk about it with people I don’t know that well. Since I announced my pregnancy at work, various coworkers have come to my window. “How are you doing?”

“Well, thanks. And you?”

“I mean with your—“ they point to my belly or create a phantom belly by rounding their hand over their midsections.

“Oh good thanks. So far so good.”

“You feeling sick?”

“Nope, I’m past that already.”

Something in my brisk tone tells them to drop it and most do. I change the subject with work-related inquiries. How are classes going? Good students this term? Maybe I’m just afraid that I will quickly detour into the well-traveled land of TMI. (“Well, I’m doing pretty well today. I could actually take a shit that didn’t leave me howling in pain. A pleasant change.”)

There’s always the shared terror of the Swine Flu to provide conversational fodder. Yes, I’ve read the pros and cons and I’m going for the vaccine, anti-vaccine conspiracy theories be damned.

And Purvis? She’s still kicking away. No pattern yet so he keeps me on my toes and gives me the occasional fright when a few hours have passed without a jab in the gut. Tomorrow we see Dr. Adorable for a (hopeful) dose of well-being. I look forward to the relieved exhale and weeklong sense of confident well-being when we hear the heartbeat.

RANDOM: A middle finger to Nicole Richie and her fashion line for the pregnant ladies whose upper size limit is 12. Really didn't need to be made to feel like an outcast while in preg-land. May your lack of consideration for the regular-sized women of the world doom your flowy dresses to failure.