It is What it Is

Bellying up to the Bar

I didn't bring my lunch today, and I didn't feel like going out at noon, so this left my mid-day meal to the whims and fancies of our building's cafeteria. Now, please bear in mind that there's nothing wrong with our building's cafeteria, it's just that no matter what's on the menu for the day or how many heart-friendly meals they offer, I walk through the door, smell what's on the grill and feel powerless to order anything other than a cheeseburger and fries. (Considering how much time I've spent staring at Carroll Krieff as I do my Malibu Pilates workout, I'm very much trying to kick this impulse-cheeseburger-buying habit. I've also been avoiding checking the mail so I won't be tempted to go for my 4:00 peanut M&M's either. My life is hard.)

After checking around  and seeing the aforementioned cheeseburgers, some roasted meat saturated in good-smelling juices and cheesy potatoes, I felt that my safest bet in light of my new goals was the salad bar.

Now, you see, I'm not good with salad bars. And it's not about the prevalence of leafy, raw, green things that are actually healthy. The thing is, I have a problem with buffets.

Unfortunate Questions

Around this time of the month, Tina, Nadria and I usually spend most of our days out and about. We're often on the hunt for products to feature in the magazine, story ideas, etc. This can be really fun — we get to get out of the office, we talk to new people, we hear what people think about the magazine — but on some days this is not so fun. Yesterday was one of those not so fun days.

Tina and I were strolling through Mountain Brook Village. We were minding our own business. A strange man walked past me. He stopped. He gave me the once over. (Up until this point, he is mildly annoying, but I do not yet want to punch him in the face.) Then he says, "You have to stop and take notice of a beautiful woman, even when she's pregnant."

The problem here? I'm not pregnant.

In short, I was pretty much devastated. Tina tried to help me out. "Laurel, he had like one eye. He was practically blind." I feel that if he had one eye, I should have seemed smaller since he was seeing less of me. "Maybe it's because you have big boobs. He thinks you're lactating or something." Not cutting it either. Boobs and the stomach are two very different terrains.

The bottom line is this: If someone asks if you are pregnant when you are not in fact pregnant, there is no way to mitigate the situation. Softening the blow or explaining away the insult are not viable options. I don't care if it's a blind, deaf person with no hands (so he/she can't feel for a stomach) who claims that unicorns are running rampant through town doing the asking. Hell, the character from Johnny Got His Gun could use his one remaining chest hair to ask if I was pregnant when I wasn't pregnant in Morse code, and I'd still be bothered by it.

At times like these, I'm reminded of some very good advice from a friend in Huntsville. She says that there's never a need to ask about relationships or pregnancies. She argues that if these things are going well, the person is going to tell you about it. It's much easier to be patient and wait for the, "Steven and I are doing really well — we just bought a house," than to ask about a significant other (especially of someone you don't see that often) and sit through the painful, "we're actually not together anymore, he's in love with his secretary" part of the conversation.

Personally, I don't want anyone to ask about my stomach unless I grab them by the arm to tell them that I'm going into labor. But, trying to use that I'm-not-the-center-of-the-world mentality I've been working on lately (with limited success, I'm still bothered that TomKat stole the thunder from my 27th birthday by getting married on November 18), I realize that this incident, while upsetting, is not the worst thing that could have happened to me. There are plenty of people really suffering in the Midwest right now (as well as all over the world). And the rational part of me knows that I don't actually look pregnant. (I'd like to be in the "so what if I did, I love my body anyway" place, but I'm not there yet.)

And, in true "every cloud has a silver lining" fashion, at least this incident is some good motivation to use that rather expensive Malibu Pilates chair I just bought.