Nov
1
At social functions I used to compensate for my dorktastic amounts of shyness with large servings of alcoholic beverages, which helped lubricate my inhibitions to the point of feeling that it was perfectly all right to feature some kickboxing moves while publicly dancing to “Hey Ya”, at least on one fuzzily memorable occasion.
These days I have only my sparkling personality and rapier wit to fall back on, which is to say I do a lot of blushing and mumbling. On the bright side, I no longer find myself yelling “EVERYBODY SAY ‘DIRTY SANCHEZ’!!” while laughing hysterically and accidentally sticking my hand into the punch bowl.
I was thinking about the New Social Me (99.9% Less Likely To Be Arrested!) yesterday while we were making our rounds at JB’s office Halloween shindig, which included a family event in the cafeteria. I noticed the table laden with a dot-commish selection of free microbrews, and it occurred to me that a few years ago I would have been making a beeline for that table, thinking how I really needed a beer before going back to the business of being introduced to JB’s coworkers. Or, preferably, six or seven beers. At which point I would begin greeting his coworkers not with a handshake, but a warm, boozy hug and possibly the announcement that their coshtume wash rilly, rilly cool, were they a DINOSHORE?
I’m kind of making fun of myself here, but the truth is I did rely on alcohol to 1) help me feel less self-conscious, 2) make me feel more funny/interesting/cool, and eventually 3) help me deal with the bad memories from the last time I was so very funny and cool in public.
Instead of a bottle or a glass in my hand, I have a small child. I’m here to tell you that when it comes to social occasions, a small child provides pretty much the exact polar opposite effect as a nice stiff drink. I guess you could say small children are icebreakers, in that they are very loud and attract a lot of attention, but if your goal is to feel less awkward and obtrusive, they’re about as useful in that regard as a maraca-playing kangaroo.
(Ditto pregnancy, by the way: if your default nature is to shrink into the wallpaper, the massively protruding belly will give away your location every time.)
When we took Riley around JB’s office our kid could not have been more chatty and outgoing. He stopped in front of total strangers to carry out weird, otherworldly toddler conversations (Riley: “HI!” Stranger: “Um, well hi there!” Riley: “something something something indecipherable SHOES something HAWEEN COSTUME!” Stranger: “Uh huh, yes!” Us: “Okay Riley, let’s keep going! Say bye bye!” Riley: “SEE YOU LATER ALGATOR!”); he crowed with delight over the less-scary decorations and howled “TOO FREAKY!” over the too-scary ones; he galloped at top speed and occasionally fell flat on his face; overall, he was a pint-sized ball of mummy madness.
I’m kind of envious of Riley’s approach. He hasn’t learned to worry about what people think of him, and I wish he never would. I mean, I’d like him to have some social graces (I’m thinking of some software developers I know), but the endless anxiety-loop that cranks up in my own head whenever I leave the house, man, I’d like that particular personality quirk to pass him by.
Since he was born, my boy has forced me to more fully participate with the world around me. I get down on the ground to look at tiny bugs, I join him in loudly praising the many glorious features of helium balloons, I talk to people I’d normally be too shy to make eye contact with. And of course I sometimes attract the palpable gaze of every person within a fifty foot radius as I carry my kicking, screaming kid out to the car.
I sometimes feel as though I lived for so many years with this airless layer of alcohol between myself and the real world, with all of its problems and inconveniences and challenges. The scenery was always the same, the view never changed. And now I’m moving forward, at times almost flying along, with the fresh breeze stinging my face and making my eyes water. Marveling at the amazing things I’m seeing from my new vantage point.
Oct
30
The other day:
Me: “Hello?”
JB: (panting moistly into the phone): “What are you wearing?”
Me: “A great big maternity sweater! And it’s all itchy!”
JB: “. . .”
Me: “Also, I came up with the perfect description for a hemorrhoid: it’s like your asshole blew a tiny little balloon.”
JB: “I—”
Me: “Buttle Yum!”
JB: “We are never going to have sex again, are we?”
Me: “NOT IF YOU KEEP KNOCKING ME UP WE AREN’T.”
I am feeling unsexily large lately. At a recent doctor’s appointment I confirmed I have in fact piled on a goodly amount of weight in the last few weeks. It’s my own damn fault—no, not the weight, that’s clearly a byproduct of a healthy pregnancy and can’t possibly be helped by using such drastic measures as stepping away from the Halloween candy—because if I didn’t ask them to tell me how much I weighed, I wouldn’t know. My doctor’s office weighs in kilos, for some reason, and that particular number always sounds satisfyingly low. “68 kilograms, my goodness,” I like to say, batting my eyelashes in concern. “Why, I’d best step up my baking, hadn’t I?”
Not only did I ask them how much I weighed this week, but gripped by some horrible influx of female insecurity and self-sabotage, I actually felt compelled to grill the nurse about my weight gain, in the same idiotic way you might ask a man to tell you whether or not you look fat in this dress (to which there is no possible good answer, other than a shout of dismay and the admonition to eat something immediately, you’re practically wasting away to skin and bones!) (also, that reminds me of something JB confessed to me a long time ago: his college girlfriend, who he had apparently been thinking of breaking up with, asked the Stupid Question about whether her outfit made her look fat, and JB’s irritated answer was this: “No, your fat makes you look fat.” You’ll have to ask him what happened after that, because I don’t know—although perhaps it’s better if history cloaks that little uncouth moment in mystery). Despite having had neither the nurse or doctor express any misgivings about my weight gain to date, I flat-out asked them if they thought there was anything to “worry about”.
Is that not the dumbest thing you ever heard in your whole life? I must have peed out some critical brain cells during the urine protein test, or something, because all I can think is that I was hoping to get an official green light for eating like a starved hyena for the next three months and OF COURSE I did not get one. “Well,” the nurse said, “you’re within what we consider to be a healthy weight gain so far, but if you’re concerned you could definitely cut back on the snacking, take it a little easy there.”
“I will cut back from the snacking when you pry the snacks from my cold dead fingers,” I hissed, before flipping her off and waddling away as fast as I could. No, not really, I just nodded sagely in a manner that said I would give her helpful advice the thought and consideration it deserved, which is to say I came home and made an enormous batch of oatmeal cookies.
Anyway, it was a serious lapse in judgement on my part and in the future I will refrain from asking medical professionals questions I don’t want the answer to. In the meantime, I am trying to embrace the Bigness That Is Me, and remember that despite the fact that I am steadfastly re-inforcing every bad habit I managed to finally break last spring, I lost the weight before and I can do it again.
Don’t ask me to feel sexy, though. I mean, I make an involuntary walrus-like grunting noise when I get up from playing on the floor with my son. My boobs are the size of Volkswagens. I’m always hitching at my pants, or scratching my chest, or burping. I won’t even mention the SKIN TAGS. Oh, the sexytime, it is not now.
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