Nina In New York: The Universe Is Trying To Tell Me Something
A young professional's take on the trials and tribulations of everyday life in New York City.
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By Nina Pajak
Alright. This has gone far enough. Let me make something clear, to those who know me a lot, a little, or not at all:
I AM NOT PREGNANT.
You will know when I am, because unlike many women who are capable of keeping their pregnancies a secret for the early weeks and months, my spontaneous decision to turn down a glass of wine will give me away within minutes. And then once a few people figure it out, everyone will know. So rest assured, I harbor no hopes of successfully keeping that secret.
That means that no one - but no one - may ask me again if I am pregnant.
Today made four.
It was my eyebrow threader, Annie. You know, the one to whom I'm unfaithful? Well I finally returned to her on Friday, and much to my delighted surprise, her eyes lit up when she saw me. As I walked towards her, she looked at my kindly and very excited. I thought, I misjudged her! She wouldn't hold my absence against me! She is a benevolent aesthetician whose only concern is to treat her clients well and shape their eyebrows expertly. I sat down in the chair, and she smiled down on me. And then it came:
"Are you pregnant??" She said it in the only tone of voice one uses to utter those words: already convinced that it is true.
"WHAT?" I shrilled. "NO!"
She looked a little crestfallen. "What's wrong? Don't you want children?"
I was flummoxed.
"Well, yes, I want a child—that's not the point! I don't want to be asked about it until I'm out to here!" I made a gigantic circle with my arms and motioned to a spot in space that my body could surely never reach, no matter how many babies I'm gestating.
She laughed and instructed me to move up in the chair a little so she could get on with her work. I stewed.
Here's the thing. I'm not fat! I'm really not. I am not a stick figure, but I work out and most people would describe me as pretty slim and I never wear a large in anything. I do not have a beer belly or a giant gut, and while I've been known to carry a food baby every so often (pizza babies, typically), I do not look big enough to appear as though I am carrying a human child inside me. Maybe you say, "well Nina, after four people have asked you about your pregnancy, maybe that's not so true." And to that I say: I have no choice but to dispose of my self-perception and consider the possibility that you're right. It's an ugly realization, especially for someone who is pretty tough on herself and has subjected herself to every diet from Atkins to drunkorexia to something involving a frightening volume of cabbage soup.
Anyway, I'm obviously disposing of the shirt I was wearing. It so happens that aside from its being one of my favorites, it is also the shirt which I was wearing during the first instance of the now crime spree of insensitivity and ineptitude which has been perpetrated against me. Dear turquoise shirt: you are hereby terminated. Thanks for the good times, thanks for the awful, awful, crippling self-consciousness.
But I feel like none of that gets to the heart of the issue, which is: Who are all these wacked-out people in my life who think it's okay to ask a reasonably not-pregnant-looking person if she is pregnant? I just. I don't. I can't figure it out. I think I just need to stop talking to people altogether. It's the only iron-clad solution I can think of.
Meanwhile, I'm not even touching upon all the other people I know who have asked me when I'll get pregnant, why I'm not currently pregnant, and why don't I just get pregnant? None of these people are my mother. Or my mother-in-law.
More on that later. Must go drink copious quantities of wine in order to keep up appearances.
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Dear Readers: While I am rarely at a loss for words, I'm always grateful for column ideas. Please feel free to e-mail me your suggestions.
Nina Pajak is a writer and publishing professional living with her husband on the Upper West Side.
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