Last Saturday, I was introduced to a delightful lady who told many stories of the years past, raising her own children. She led a fascinating life, and we had a great visit.
As she was leaving, she rubbed my belly and told me how blessed I was to have another one coming. I grimaced, unsure how to proceed, when she asked me when I was due. Okay, forget ignoring it and moving on. “Umm… I’m not pregnant.”
“What?!” She couldn’t hear me.
Louder. Heads turned. Yes, thank you very much. I’m not. Now that the whole room knows, I’ll go do some sit ups and attempt to curb such comments.
(Just for the record, it wasn’t exactly upsetting. I mean, really, if I didn’t know better, I’d think I was pregnant. But no, it’s just fat. Six babies and no time to exercise and a smidge of lack of self control kind of fat. Here’s to determination to more sit-ups and less excuses.)
