I need to lose my belly fat and get back my abs. I need to stop having awkward conversations with people on public transport.
Sometimes it’s better to just go along with the pregnancy assumption. But then I feel guilty that I’ve diddled someone out of their seat. At other times I’d rather just wear a t-shirt that reads ‘Food Baby. Don’t bother to stand.’ After all, the dress I’m wearing today should probably go straight in the bin.
And at least then I wouldn’t have to spend all day breathing in and still get the bun-in-the-oven assumption.
And I wouldn’t have to have embarrassing moments with strangers called Alexander*.
*His actual name…because once you’ve caused someone to wish the ground would open up for a swift swallowing then you’re sort of obliged to to carry on the conversation to alleviate their crushing humiliation. Believe me, I was half-tempted to make up a due date then and their to relieve both of our pain. But I wasn’t quick enough. And ta-dah! Instant mortification!
Perhaps I should just eat my way through all public transport journeys, preferably devouring shellfish and pâté and all those other banned foodstuffs, just to hammer the point home that I am JUST FAT.
Maybe I should be flattered that although past my baby days I look so fertile. Maybe I’ll miss it post-menopause when people offer me their seats out of sympathy for my age and decrepitude. I doubt it though. Believe me, I’d rather be left to stand.
Still, this was how I learnt about Alexander’s date at the weekend, how he assumed he was over the hill at 37 (oh, my heart bleeds) and how excited he is (awww). I also learnt that it turns out already knew his date’s AA sponsor and therapist – what a small world! I assume they won’t be going for drinks then.
But then I guess we all have baggage. Mine just comes in saddlebag form.