-*-Dr. Dover bent my arm in all different directions, feeling around my shoulder and listening for any wincing on my part.
“Alright, Mrs. Davis, you’re all good to go. I do want you to come back to my office for an x-ray soon after you deliver, just so I can make sure you are in the clear 100%. But go on about your day as normal, just be careful and ease into things, alright?”
“Got it, thank you, neighbor.”
Dr. Dover winked at me and waved at Zach and then went on about his day at work.
Zach helped me to my feet and smiled lovingly at my swollen body. I glared at him in response, because I knew what he was thinking. He was thinking about how fat his cute little wife had gotten over the last 36 weeks. The scale at the doctor’s office read 198 pounds, and no, I did not have a medical condition. I checked. I had a food condition. I had done nothing but gorge myself to bursting for the last 8 weeks of shoulder recovery. I couldn’t stop myself, and no body else stopped me either. On top of that, it was mid August and my body was swollen with water retention. My face puffed up to where my cheeks were round and fat. My fingers swelled and became too large for any of my rings. My arms were still small compared to the rest of my body, but trust me, the rest of my body made up for what they lacked. I had thighs thicker than what my waist used to be, but luckily they stayed smooth and creamy. They rubbed together up top when I walked, which I hated because I constantly had to pull my shorts down in the front, and you’re dead to society if it looks like you’re picking a wedgie out your front. My hips were fat and rounded so much so that if I stuck a finger into them, it’d get lost in several inches of soft flesh. And the grand slam, my ass...well, you already know. My biggest asset.
It was around a few weeks ago that I started hating people. Well, temporarily, at least. Comments like, “Oh you poor thing!” Or, “Any day now?” And my favorite, “Twins?”
The other day when it was my turn to order food at our favorite burger joint, the cashier put his hands up and loudly exclaimed, “Whoa! You had to eat a lot of burgers to get that belly!” He wasn’t calling me fat, he was making a joke about me being pregnant. I turned to the man behind me to say, “Did he just say that?” But he already had his head buried into his hand and shaking with shame. I was definitely in no mood to play along with a stupid joke. I just wanted my food. The cashier noticed that I wasn’t laughing and said, “Oh, I’m just playing with you. My ex-wife was pregnant 4 times, and each time I thought she looked better than ever. I used to always joke that her growing belly was due to her eating too many hamburgers.”
I told him how I understood why she’d make him an ex, and then I walked out the door. It wasn’t my finest moment, but I’m not sorry about it. I’m just expecting karma to bring him through my office door one day as a client. Watch, with just my luck, it’ll happen.
And what is up with everyone thinking that my belly is a fucking petting zoo? Strangers being the worst of offenders. Who does that? Zach told me I should rub their belly as they rub mine, so I’ve been doing that each time and people have definitely received the message.
I hit my all time low last week when Zach and I went to get a burger- yes, I know, I’m addicted to burgers- and I suggested we eat outside on the huge patio over looking the park. I don’t really consider myself to be crazy or paranoid, but I swear every person that walked by me turned their head to look at me as I ate my food. I even saw people turn their bodies completely around just to look at me. Zach tried to convince me it was because people loved to see a beautiful pregnant woman out in public (are we to be hidden?!) and that I represented fertility and health and beauty and blah blah blah just shove it. Anyway, I began crying in the middle of eating my burger, but I was too hungry to take a pause to cry, so I just put my sunglasses on over my eyes to cover the tears and continued eating away at my food. After my belly was nice and full with lunch, I simply dabbed at my damp cheeks with my napkin and carried on about my day.
Zach listened to his husband radar and did not say a word to me about my breakdown, but I could see his eyes clearly, and they looked wide and alarmed with fear. He probably thinks I’ve gone off the deep end and that I’d be the type of hamster to eat her young if left alone with them. I wouldn’t be surprised if I found a secret panic button hiding behind the artwork above our bed, in preparation for the day where I finally do lose my shit. It is very possible that Zach keeps a note in his pocket that reads, “It was my wife who killed me.” I don’t know these things for certain, but I definitely don’t trust someone who willingly jogs in the summertime heat, like Zach does these days.
“Where do you want to go now, love? We’ve got the whole weekend together, just you and me.”
“I want a burger.”
“Then a burger it is, baby.”
“I want a burger to take home though, so I can lounge by the pool and enjoy the cool water after lunch.”
“I support you fully on that idea.”