A lighthearted look at news, events, culture and everyday life in New York.
By Nina Pajak
Here’s a funny thing with which I’ve been trying to come to terms for the past couple months, ever since my belly has begun to protrude.
You may recall an earlier piece, well before I got pregnant, regarding a motif in my life. A rather unpleasant one. I was plagued by an unusually high number of instances wherein people—family, coworkers, distant acquaintances—found it acceptable to ask me if I was pregnant.
And I oddly wound up finding comfort in the idea that, if I was looking a little chubby one day, a random stranger might just assume I’m pregnant and not just fat. And then in my head I’d think, “hey, I could be pregnant for all anyone knows, so nobody has any right to look at me and think I look bad. If someone was like, ‘that girl looks fat,’ I could just be like, ‘maybe I’m pregnant, ever think about that?!'”
Yes, these are the thoughts that go through my head.
So naturally, when I actually did discover that I was pregnant and when I finally started to show a little tummy, I was excited at the prospect of actually having a justifiable protruding stomach.
And then suddenly, silence.
Not a single person asked me. A few people, when I told them, admitted to having suspicions, but many said, “I couldn’t even tell!” It’s not until now, at nearly 18 weeks, when I wear a tight shirt, that strangers will dare to ask when I’m due. Which, of course, is as it should be. But it’s not like that’s how it ever was.
Suddenly everyone in the world is reading their Emily Post.
Of course, it would probably be relevant to mention that no fewer than three people have asked if I’m not sure “there aren’t twins in there.”
Which, I’ve concluded, is essentially the prenatal equivalent of asking a non-pregnant girl if she’s pregnant.
So I guess in some ways, the world is as it should be.