A quick one today, but I had to share.
This afternoon my work’s resident crazy lady came round to speak with me. I say “crazy” as she just acts in a way that is usually a bit much for most people. (She went off on maternity leave a while ago and when she had the baby, she sent round pictures to everyone in our larger team, including the really important people, of the baby freshly born – with blood and guts and aspects of her that really should remain out of the workplace. It went down in my workplace history… Is she the one who… Yeah.)
Despite me doing my best to look busy, and in response to her “Are you busy?” saying “Yes I am busy!” she decided to natter at me for approximately 10 excruciating minutes. There was small talk, including probably some kind of tentative request for me to give her some work (the word hellsno springs to mind) and then she decided to move it onto personal life.
I’d like to preface this by saying that I am not one of those people who likes to bring my personal life to work. Maybe it will happen, to the closest of work colleagues, but I’m even one of those people who doesn’t like to be on Facebook with colleagues. (At my last place, they used to think this was hilarious and would try and find me on Facebook until I blocked them all.) I mean, I just don’t think you need to share that much with your colleagues. (I did once, with my ex… and we all know how that turned out. Work/life separation, I think.)
So she’s like, “And how’s your personal life?” And I said, in a very British way, “Yes it’s fine”. She’s not British which maybe explains why she’s so g/d ignorant of the British unwritten law which says “If I say the word fine, that means we aren’t going to talk about this any longer.” (Think about it. Fine in British is kind of like the opposite of fine. It basically means F-off, in a polite way.)
She took this as an invitation to talk longer, despite the fact that I was staring at my laptop and trying to do a jedi mind trick on her to just go away and leave me alone.
“Where are you living?”
Umm, I’m fairly sure you’re never going to be invited round there, so why do you need to know?
I told her where I was living. Vaguely, with not enough detail for her actually to track me down, though I wouldn’t put it past her. She has that sort of glint in her eye.
“Maybe you should move to X, near me.”
WTF? No really, are we even friends? I don’t think I’ve ever given you that impression… and if I have, I apologise! I take it back! Why did I even look up? Oh yeah, because you came round specifically to speak with me. I don’t want to speak with you! I have to do some work! Go away!
And then came the final straw:
“Any news?” – whilst staring meaningfully at my – I admit it, I’m trying to get rid of it – muffin top. (Perhaps not skillfully enough disguised in a loose flowing top. Obviously not disguised enough.)
I sort of did a double take.
Was she really asking me if I was pregnant? Oh yeah, she was. This is Mrs No-Tact-Whatsoever we are talking about here. Mrs I’ll-Email-Photos-Of-My-Freshly-Birthed-Baby-Out-Of-My-Vajayjay. What did I expect?
I sort of stammered, “No. Do I look fat or something?”
She carried blithely on.
I mean, even the most tactless of people knows that you never ask about pregnancy, even if it’s staring you in the face. And even the most foot-in-mouth person would have a bit of self-knowledge to understand that asking a non-pregnant person if they’re pregnant is pretty embarrassing, and would STFU and leave the conversation.
BUT NO! She stayed talking for another few minutes!
Jeez. H. C. (Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain. Jeepers. Shiiiiitake mushrooms!)
I actually can’t believe it. I mean, I was feeling pretty bad what with the IVF weight, hormones, and post-miscarriage comfort eating but that just takes the
biscuit slice of pizza.
I immediately texted my BFF, T, and my Other Friend (she’s not my BFF but she is awesome). And they all responded with various strains of I can’t believe anyone would be so rude. (Plus a bit of laughing I’m sure. I mean, if it happened to anyone else, I’d be laughing.)
Also T, bless him, sent me the following message: “Well you look gorgeous. Maybe she just thought you looked glowing.”
(There’s a reason I’m sticking with him for life.)
On the plus
size side, it’s given me the kick up the not inconsiderable backside to stop wallowing in excuses and lose some weight. I have about two months to go until Orlando and I want to be able to wear a swimsuit in the water park without feeling like a beached whale. (I don’t care how big I am relatively… I feel fat in myself.) It gives me an excuse in my head at least, though I don’t know how long that will last! I stopped weighing myself after the miscarriage as I was too depressed, but I will have to (wo)man up and do it, so at least I can watch the kilos dropping off. (Before you think I’m one of those weird people who doesn’t need to lose weight, at my heaviest pre-IVF I had varied by 14kg, which is a lot when you’re short. And I would hazard I’m 5-10kg above my heaviest now which is nuts. Even more nuts than the nutter.)
So, thought for the day is:
It’s never acceptable to ask someone if they’re pregnant.
It’s just as insulting to ask someone if they’re pregnant whether they were recently pregnant or not. Actually it’s possibly more wounding but less insulting, I guess.
Someone needs to invent a crazy lady repellent spray.