Thursday, May 20, 2010

The Red Stapler

I work in a place that is much like any office around. We have our politics, and our cliques, and our office laughing-stock. In all my years and with all my places of employment, I’ve realized that if you’ve been in one office, you’ve been in them all.

So, I work with a girl who is rather… slow. She’s sweet, very religious, and of course, a nice person. Just not… my type of person. She seems to have really taken an interest in my whole baby-having thing, and yesterday she asked if she could touch my stomach. Um. No? Like, I’m just over three months pregnant and barely starting to show. It’s not like my stomach has popped and is out there for the world to desire (many-a-time I’ve had to hold myself back from asking a pregnant woman to touch her lovely belly.) But, I’m certainly and obviously not at that point. And this was all a mere days after she asked me how much I weigh, how much I make, and how much the house I live in costs. Obviously the, *nervous laugh,* “Oh, coworker, you just don’t ask these things!” subtle way of saying “Shut the eff up” didn’t work. But believe me: if she goes on to ask who I voted for in the last election, and what my stance on abortion is, I am prepared with a quippy and clever answer!

Also on the work front:

I have the pleasure of working with three 46-year-old menopausal women. I don’t know if it’s the age, the hormones, or the working at a financial institution, but man, are these ladies ever bitchy. They all have boys who are around sixteen years old, and spend the entirety of their breaks in the lunch room complaining about their awful kids. I sit quietly in the corner reading my parenting books or pregnancy manual de jour, while they go on for their entire break about how naughty/shitty/good for nothing children are. After these tirades, they often turn to me and go, “See?! Is this what you want? Just KNOW that this is what you’ve signed up for!” Well, not really. Right now my baby is inside me, so I don’t have to tell him not to go downtown to buy drugs. Also, I’ve never told my parents that I hate them, so I’m not really anticipating my kids telling me to “fuck off” and letting me know that they hate me. I don’t know why my pregnancy is bringing out this desire in these women to “warn” me. I realize (and I realize how much I DON’T realize yet) that it’s hard and that it’ll be a daily challenge, and that I’m in for the toughest job of my life. But still… It’s like they want to suck all the joy out of it. I’m not giving birth to a bratty sixteen year old; I’m giving birth to a lovely baby. My lovely baby. And for now, that’s all that matters.

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