KNOCKED UP

I had to think long and hard about how I wanted to approach this story. I have to tell it correctly, to give it justice, to allow it the legs that such a "why me?" moment deserves.

Let me wax philosophic: I'd say 50% of what I write about on this blog is from my own quick-witted observation of the world around me, or situations I create for myself, such as this post or this one. In other words, it comes from me. The other 50%, like the famous Carrie Underwood story, this one about highway heathens or this recent one about almost getting 50 to life from the Belle Meade police is nothing but me chronicling the abnormal, unusual and did-that-really-just-happen? situations I find myself in. Or, it comes from other people (and by "other" I probably mean my mom), and I was just lucky enough to witness it (then drive straight home to blog about it). Or, put more simply: I can't make this stuff up, y'all (well, 50% of it, at least).

So this story is definitely going in the latter half of the posts, the moments where I just roll my eyes heavenward and say "Thank you, Jesus, for another perfectly blogworthy story." I swear, I think sometimes Jesus is up there in Heaven, teeing up these balls for me to swing at, because why else would all of these unbelievable, "Excuse me, Carrie, does this say loser?", "Is he doing what I think he's doing?", "Did she just say she was going to let me go?" incidents keep happening to me?

Such was the case today when I, clad in jeans (that I haven't worn since college [meaning I've lost weight {important to the story, I promise}]), and this empire-waist sweater, was asked the forbidden question.

Girls - you know which forbidden question I am talking about. The Question. The one that you DO NOT ask people, for fear of being in the exact same situation that the imbecilic bellhop found himself in, when, after we stepped off the elevator, he asked me:

"So when's the big day?"

Thinking he meant wedding, I said "I'm sorry?"

"The big day? Due date? Aren't you pregnant?"



Now. I will go on the record and admit that this time last year, yes I did look pregnant. Swollen, even. Too much stress and not enough time. It was my own fault and I saw it coming.

But that was then. And this is now. And no, you stupid man, I am not pregnant. There are a lot of other women walking around this hotel, this town, this earth even, that look so much more pregnant than I do, even if I am wearing an empire-waisted sweater, that for you to assume I am pregnant is so insulting, it's laughable.

I don't look pregnant, y'all. I don't. I did last year but I don't now. And damnit, I am proud of my non-pregnant ass! Judge me. I DON'T CARE.

So I genuinely did laugh it off. My shirt must have billowed when I stepped off the elevator or through the hotel doors or something. At the end of the day, I'm not pregnant, and he's still a bellhop, so we all win.

After assuring him I was NOT in the family way, I thanked him for helping me and then proceeded to text about 10 of my closest friends to tell them what happened. I wish I had thought to invite him to go running with me after dinner, or to drink the wine I brought with me, because either one would have proved to him - I AIN'T HAVING NO BABY!

The point: is this the body of a pregnant girl?

No. That is the body of a high schooler, but the more I run, the closer I am to getting back to that, and I am making progress.


The end. We will now resume our regularly scheduled blog vacation while I finish up my work trip.