Hormones? What hormones, you JACKASS?
As a pregnant lady, my hormones have taken me on trips of instability. To say the least.
I recognize fits of crying and little mood swings as hormones coming to roost. Of course, I don't recognize at the time the accurate cause of my brief spasms of psychosis. Oh no, all are completely justified by whatever situation is at hand. An insensitive husband ("Doug, the toothbrush holder obviously belongs on the left of the sink!") or a philanphropic TV show ("he can play catch with his kids even though he's paralyzed!") can set me right off. And don't even get me started on anyone ever pointing out the hold these pesky hormones may have on my incident analysis at the time. Hence the name of this particular post.
Until recently, I believed wholeheartedly that I held complete control over these outbursts. I may lose it from time to time, but I do my best to clear everything up afterwards. I'm sure my husband has lost track of the number of times I've sheepishly snuggled up to him to forfeit an apology (or three) and to accept the fact that he may have a firmer grasp on logic than I in that specific period of time.
However, three recent incidents have warranted a mini audit of my quick responses - just the insensible rage and not the uncontrollable tears. What better place to hash this out than in a public forum? Let's discuss.
Incident #1:
Crossing the street near my home after a long day at work. A guy walking perpendicular to me hesitates just long enough to make me feel I have the right of way. At the last minute, however, douche decides to cross in front of me, making me stop. I look him right in the eye and say, "Oh, no, you're more important. Go ahead." He does, I move on, Doug tries to continue his sentence but just shakes his head in bewilderment.
Incident #2:
Again, crossing the street near home. Have the right of way in terms of white walking man on the crosswalk sign. Talking to my sister who has the phone on speaker so that little Kenzie (6 months) can hear her sweet dear Aunt. A car trying to turn honks at me while I'm in the middle of the street. Keep in mind, even though pregnancy has slowed my pepstep down a tad, I could still do laps around geriatric mall-walkers - which means that I wasn't taking my sweet-ass-Sunday-driving time. Forgetting little impressionable Kenzie is on the line, I scream at the driver, "What the fuck?" He slows down - which gets me even angrier (I realize my priorities are a bit out of whack, but step into my shoes for a split) - and he LAUGHS at me. Oooooh, you must be joking. So I scream, "Eh, fuck you! I'm pregnant, you DICK!" And then at this point, since he has now stopped in the middle of the road, I get the hell out of there, because I just realized the harm that could befall me and little Pip. I mean, as much as I believe my pregnant rage is worse than a gun, it's definitely not faster. I think Jess may be rethinking the whole speakerphone idea with her Brooklynite sister. At least while that sister is knocked up.
Incident #3:
I'm heading to Starbucks to get a little tasty treat for myself before I check in for my pre-natal massage and some much needed relaxation. The irony isn't lost on me here. It's about 5:30pm, so Starbucks is as stuffed with strung-out nannies as a Twilight premiere is with bleach-white fanatics. I'm not in any kind of mood, just waiting my turn, when I get up to the cashier who greets me with a "What?" No "Hi, can I help you," or "Welcome to Starbucks," or even a "What can I get you?" Just a "What?" I take a deep breath, I'm heading to a massage after all, time to cleanse, so I tell him my drink order and then I notice the nut bars in front of the counter, so I say, "And one of these nut bars." Bone-bag holds out his hand impatiently, so I grab one and put it in his hand. After scanning, he throws it on the counter, and I go, "Thank a lot." He looks at me and says something under his breath. I thought he was telling me something - like maybe an apology? - so I go, "I'm sorry, what did you say?" He goes, "Nothin'." At this point I'm positive it wasn't an apology, but I'm going to push it. "No, I didn't hear what you had to say," I send back testily. "Nothing, never mind," he says and laughs patronizingly. I say, "Whatever" (I know, genius), take my change and walk back to the barista. I'm not paying much attention to the guy making the drinnks, he looks nice enough. I do look up at one point and notice my cashier whispering something in his ear. Sure enough, 5 seconds later, barista holds up my coffee and shouts out my drink order. For a split second I wonder if I should take it, but this employee-in-cahoots is looking directly at me and I get nervous. At this moment, a brief inner struggle occurs - it was $5 and it's only a drink, I'm sure he wouldn't do anything to it in front of everyone. Then the cloudiness clears - OF COURSE I'm not drinking this steaming cup of piss. So instead of walking out the back way, I turn right around and walk through throngs of people, catch the cashier's eye, hold up my cup and scream, "THANKS A LOT, I HOPE YOU SPIT IN IT!" And then promptly throw it in the trash right in front of him. Then I walk out a bit thirstier but so much prouder of myself for making a fabulous decision, speaking up dramatically and walking out. What's five bucks got on a sense of self? It was only later after eating the nut bar I had managed to free from my sweaty, clenched fist that I realized he couldn't have cared less. It's not like I taught him a lesson or anything.
Now for my mini-audit. I think...
- I could possibly get away with anything because I'm pregnant.
- However, I'm still in New York where one kind of has to be on one's guard.
- Because I could get stabbed, shot or snatched.
- Therefore. I gotta take it easy.
- Or the next person you hear who "fell" into the subway tracks may just be me.
- Hopefully not.
- I just can't take chances anymore.
- My cankles aren't very forgiving of me moving quickly.
- Not to mention that I'm holding a human life inside my body and I have to take care of him.
- And myself.
Okay. I've sufficiently shamed myself. I'm sorry everyone. I'll be better. I'll count to 10. Although that seldom works for me, it actually works against me and makes me angrier. But I'll take deep breaths. That will work. And I'll keep my head down and mouth shut. I'll try.
Love.
Wanna see a picture?
I recognize fits of crying and little mood swings as hormones coming to roost. Of course, I don't recognize at the time the accurate cause of my brief spasms of psychosis. Oh no, all are completely justified by whatever situation is at hand. An insensitive husband ("Doug, the toothbrush holder obviously belongs on the left of the sink!") or a philanphropic TV show ("he can play catch with his kids even though he's paralyzed!") can set me right off. And don't even get me started on anyone ever pointing out the hold these pesky hormones may have on my incident analysis at the time. Hence the name of this particular post.
Until recently, I believed wholeheartedly that I held complete control over these outbursts. I may lose it from time to time, but I do my best to clear everything up afterwards. I'm sure my husband has lost track of the number of times I've sheepishly snuggled up to him to forfeit an apology (or three) and to accept the fact that he may have a firmer grasp on logic than I in that specific period of time.
However, three recent incidents have warranted a mini audit of my quick responses - just the insensible rage and not the uncontrollable tears. What better place to hash this out than in a public forum? Let's discuss.
Incident #1:
Crossing the street near my home after a long day at work. A guy walking perpendicular to me hesitates just long enough to make me feel I have the right of way. At the last minute, however, douche decides to cross in front of me, making me stop. I look him right in the eye and say, "Oh, no, you're more important. Go ahead." He does, I move on, Doug tries to continue his sentence but just shakes his head in bewilderment.
Incident #2:
Again, crossing the street near home. Have the right of way in terms of white walking man on the crosswalk sign. Talking to my sister who has the phone on speaker so that little Kenzie (6 months) can hear her sweet dear Aunt. A car trying to turn honks at me while I'm in the middle of the street. Keep in mind, even though pregnancy has slowed my pepstep down a tad, I could still do laps around geriatric mall-walkers - which means that I wasn't taking my sweet-ass-Sunday-driving time. Forgetting little impressionable Kenzie is on the line, I scream at the driver, "What the fuck?" He slows down - which gets me even angrier (I realize my priorities are a bit out of whack, but step into my shoes for a split) - and he LAUGHS at me. Oooooh, you must be joking. So I scream, "Eh, fuck you! I'm pregnant, you DICK!" And then at this point, since he has now stopped in the middle of the road, I get the hell out of there, because I just realized the harm that could befall me and little Pip. I mean, as much as I believe my pregnant rage is worse than a gun, it's definitely not faster. I think Jess may be rethinking the whole speakerphone idea with her Brooklynite sister. At least while that sister is knocked up.
Incident #3:
I'm heading to Starbucks to get a little tasty treat for myself before I check in for my pre-natal massage and some much needed relaxation. The irony isn't lost on me here. It's about 5:30pm, so Starbucks is as stuffed with strung-out nannies as a Twilight premiere is with bleach-white fanatics. I'm not in any kind of mood, just waiting my turn, when I get up to the cashier who greets me with a "What?" No "Hi, can I help you," or "Welcome to Starbucks," or even a "What can I get you?" Just a "What?" I take a deep breath, I'm heading to a massage after all, time to cleanse, so I tell him my drink order and then I notice the nut bars in front of the counter, so I say, "And one of these nut bars." Bone-bag holds out his hand impatiently, so I grab one and put it in his hand. After scanning, he throws it on the counter, and I go, "Thank a lot." He looks at me and says something under his breath. I thought he was telling me something - like maybe an apology? - so I go, "I'm sorry, what did you say?" He goes, "Nothin'." At this point I'm positive it wasn't an apology, but I'm going to push it. "No, I didn't hear what you had to say," I send back testily. "Nothing, never mind," he says and laughs patronizingly. I say, "Whatever" (I know, genius), take my change and walk back to the barista. I'm not paying much attention to the guy making the drinnks, he looks nice enough. I do look up at one point and notice my cashier whispering something in his ear. Sure enough, 5 seconds later, barista holds up my coffee and shouts out my drink order. For a split second I wonder if I should take it, but this employee-in-cahoots is looking directly at me and I get nervous. At this moment, a brief inner struggle occurs - it was $5 and it's only a drink, I'm sure he wouldn't do anything to it in front of everyone. Then the cloudiness clears - OF COURSE I'm not drinking this steaming cup of piss. So instead of walking out the back way, I turn right around and walk through throngs of people, catch the cashier's eye, hold up my cup and scream, "THANKS A LOT, I HOPE YOU SPIT IN IT!" And then promptly throw it in the trash right in front of him. Then I walk out a bit thirstier but so much prouder of myself for making a fabulous decision, speaking up dramatically and walking out. What's five bucks got on a sense of self? It was only later after eating the nut bar I had managed to free from my sweaty, clenched fist that I realized he couldn't have cared less. It's not like I taught him a lesson or anything.
Now for my mini-audit. I think...
- I could possibly get away with anything because I'm pregnant.
- However, I'm still in New York where one kind of has to be on one's guard.
- Because I could get stabbed, shot or snatched.
- Therefore. I gotta take it easy.
- Or the next person you hear who "fell" into the subway tracks may just be me.
- Hopefully not.
- I just can't take chances anymore.
- My cankles aren't very forgiving of me moving quickly.
- Not to mention that I'm holding a human life inside my body and I have to take care of him.
- And myself.
Okay. I've sufficiently shamed myself. I'm sorry everyone. I'll be better. I'll count to 10. Although that seldom works for me, it actually works against me and makes me angrier. But I'll take deep breaths. That will work. And I'll keep my head down and mouth shut. I'll try.
Love.
Wanna see a picture?
34 weeks. It's out there!
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