The size of a cow

My brother is having a week of parties to celebrate his 40th as far as I can work out, and as the non- media / entrepreneur type, conventional and currently tea-total sister I was lucky to be invited to any of the shindigs, so to have two was a bonus.

So there I was, surrounded by glamorous folk who produced TV shows or ran internet empires, trying to seem vaguely interesting, when an Avril Lavigne alike of waif proportions declared her excitement over my pregnancy and pronounced me “enormous”. On my slightly askance reaction to this, she clarified “enormous in a good way – filled with baby!”.
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Image courtesy of bellyitchblog.


Well that’s alright then – I glow with my gargantuan size knowing it is filled with baby. All my lifelong body sensitivities about being podgy have melted away with the knowledge I am producing new life. I have no concerns about losing the weight post-pregnancy. I revel in the extension of my abdomen to such proportions that I don’t now know where I end and spend my life bumping into things with it (spacial awareness never having been a strong point – that’s why my car has beeps). Yep, it is my dream to be called enormous. What else would a woman want to be called?

And she’s not the only one. Random restaurant wrangler at Westfield yesterday declared on hearing that I had five weeks left, “you must be having twins!”. Well, unless the alien is substantially eclipsing its sibling then no, I am not bloody having twins.

In fact, I don’t even think I am that huge. I can still trot to the bus, and I have another 5cm to add to this belly, so however massive I am – it’s only going to get bigger.

But really, what are they thinking? Why would commenting on the size of a stranger suddenly seem like an awesome idea? Why would the fact I am growing an alien make me any more happy about struggling to fit into confined spaces?

Cath is permitted to expound on my Pavarotti- proportions and that is only because she also looks like she’s swallowed a beach ball. And other friends I don’t mind – I mean it must be weird knowing me my normal size and being faced with the bump that seems to be trying to take the record for further distance away from the rest of my body. But strangers should keep schtum!

At least tonight I decided to avoid the mistakes of last Saturday and called it a night at 11 o’clock to avoid another meltdown on the tube home. Although this meant missing the stripping midget they had organised as a surprise at a private members’ club…

Probably the right choice, all things considered.

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