In the elevator
This morning I got on the elevator with two women who were in the middle of a conversation. (I’ve seen them both around, but don’t know them.) It turned out they were talking about one’s pregnancy and delivery. The deliverer was saying how hard it had been. The second woman got off one floor later. I smiled at the deliverer, because, you know, trapped on an elevator, and she repeated, It was haaaard! I found myself asking whether it had been hard all along, or just at the end or what. The moment I got off the elevator I was appalled at myself. Why on earth did I stick my nose into their private conversation!? I mean, okay, she kind of gave me an in, but that didn’t mean she wanted some relative stranger quizzing her about her experience. And then I wondered, how would I have felt about finding myself privy to this conversation just a few weeks ago? It would have been another one of those interactions where I’d have mustered up a fake smile and felt bitter about the whole fucking thing until I complained about it to you and we all bitched about her. And now I’m like, TELL ME MORE, LET ME TAKE SOME NOTES! Ugh. Pregnancy after infertility doesn’t change everything, but it sure changes some things: now I’m more obnoxious!
(I know, you guys are like, NO SHIT, Bunny.)