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commiserating
Dec. 3rd, 2008 04:32 pmI'm not sure if it's the sudden downturn of the stock market or something in the water or what, but suddenly, every chick on the trading floor is in procreation mode. Pendulus-bellied, breasts-refusing-to-be-hidden-under-an-Ann-Taylorblazer, stocking-feet-elevated-under-the-desk Preggers. I'm usually quite pleasant to them as we pass on the floor, or hold the bathroom door open for them to waddle past, but sometimes it's not so easy to be so gracious. When I have to step out of the elevator, or let a Mommy-To-Be grab the last turkey sub in the cafeteria, I definitely start to shoot the evil looks I usually reserve for holiday-season tourists and pukey-fall-down-drunk girls on Saturday night: "Well, gee, I'm SO glad I get to inconvenience myself so YOU can go first/eat my lunch/take my turn. It's not like I told you to get knocked up, and here I am, suffering for your unborn spawn." I try not to be so heinous, but honestly, it's hard to commiserate because I had absolutely no idea where all these walking incubators are coming from.
Until today.
"Listen, sister," said Boyfriend, rolling out of bed this morning, "there is NO way I can spend another night in this bed. I spend more time tossing and turning than I do actually sleeping."
"Is it really that bad?" being notoriously oblivious to most things, as well as a very still sleeper, things like "finding a comfortable spot" rarely affect me if I'm tired enough.
"Pretty soon, I'm going to start sleeping in the bathtub. I bet it's more comfortable," He says.*
A few hours later, when a Macy's discount coupon popped into my inbox and an afternoon suspiciously devoid of work-related emergencies ahead of me, I opted to take an actual lunch hour and investigate the wild world of mattress pads and feather beds to try and remedy the little problem of Boyfriend trying to sleep in the bathroom.
Have you ever tried to shop for a Mattress pad? it's definitely not as simple as I originally anticipated. There are dozens of prices, materials, and comfort levels. Goose down? Synthetic? Tempurpedic? You can get an egg crate and recreate the college days when you tried to make your Xtra long twin mattress feel less like a soggy piece of foam slung across rough-wood planks. You can get a 3,000 threadcount 100% goosedown feather bed and pretend you're a fancy callgirl making a visit to the Ritz Carlton.
In the end, I settled on a full-size synthetic 500 threadcount featherbed. The mattress equivalent of an Audi.
Purchase made, I go to breeze out of the Macy's home department, and realize that my body circumference has more than doubled now that I'm carrying $200 worth of pillowtop. The handles on the carrying case are only long enough for me to put my forearm through; I tried hupping it up over my shoulder and got stuck.
So now I'm lugging a three-feet around bag of puffy stuff, held tight against my stomach, navigating carefully through the store, to the street, to the subway, trying to avoid hitting other people with my new "belly". I couldn't navigate around slow moving people like I normally do, zipping around yet another ambling tour group or lady with a Bugaboo stroller, and that's when it hit me:
This is what it must be like to be pregnant.**
Or a shopaholic.
Either way, Mommies-to-Be, sorry I was so terse to your conidition before. I get it now. I'll try to be a little nicer about scootching over in the elevator for you.
*He's actually right. I tried to find a comfy spot where my mattress isn't poking me in the side, the back, the ass. And there isn't one. My mattress is barely two years old, and suddenly it feels like lying on a wire cage wrapped in toilet paper. That's what I get for going to Sleepy's during a labor day sale and saying, "I want the $199 special, no special insurance, no pillow tops, no special deals, just the cheap shit please, thanks very much."
**Kind of. I realize this is a very loosely-formed metaphor at best.
Until today.
"Listen, sister," said Boyfriend, rolling out of bed this morning, "there is NO way I can spend another night in this bed. I spend more time tossing and turning than I do actually sleeping."
"Is it really that bad?" being notoriously oblivious to most things, as well as a very still sleeper, things like "finding a comfortable spot" rarely affect me if I'm tired enough.
"Pretty soon, I'm going to start sleeping in the bathtub. I bet it's more comfortable," He says.*
A few hours later, when a Macy's discount coupon popped into my inbox and an afternoon suspiciously devoid of work-related emergencies ahead of me, I opted to take an actual lunch hour and investigate the wild world of mattress pads and feather beds to try and remedy the little problem of Boyfriend trying to sleep in the bathroom.
Have you ever tried to shop for a Mattress pad? it's definitely not as simple as I originally anticipated. There are dozens of prices, materials, and comfort levels. Goose down? Synthetic? Tempurpedic? You can get an egg crate and recreate the college days when you tried to make your Xtra long twin mattress feel less like a soggy piece of foam slung across rough-wood planks. You can get a 3,000 threadcount 100% goosedown feather bed and pretend you're a fancy callgirl making a visit to the Ritz Carlton.
In the end, I settled on a full-size synthetic 500 threadcount featherbed. The mattress equivalent of an Audi.
Purchase made, I go to breeze out of the Macy's home department, and realize that my body circumference has more than doubled now that I'm carrying $200 worth of pillowtop. The handles on the carrying case are only long enough for me to put my forearm through; I tried hupping it up over my shoulder and got stuck.
So now I'm lugging a three-feet around bag of puffy stuff, held tight against my stomach, navigating carefully through the store, to the street, to the subway, trying to avoid hitting other people with my new "belly". I couldn't navigate around slow moving people like I normally do, zipping around yet another ambling tour group or lady with a Bugaboo stroller, and that's when it hit me:
This is what it must be like to be pregnant.**
Or a shopaholic.
Either way, Mommies-to-Be, sorry I was so terse to your conidition before. I get it now. I'll try to be a little nicer about scootching over in the elevator for you.
*He's actually right. I tried to find a comfy spot where my mattress isn't poking me in the side, the back, the ass. And there isn't one. My mattress is barely two years old, and suddenly it feels like lying on a wire cage wrapped in toilet paper. That's what I get for going to Sleepy's during a labor day sale and saying, "I want the $199 special, no special insurance, no pillow tops, no special deals, just the cheap shit please, thanks very much."
**Kind of. I realize this is a very loosely-formed metaphor at best.
