The Belly-rubber must die

11/17/04: 22 weeks, 3 days

Today I experienced a first: a woman in the supermarket tried to rub my belly.

I was waiting in line and reading about Reese Witherspoon’s annoying supermom-ish abilities in my favorite tabloid when she tried to cut in front of me (the stranger, not Reese Witherspoon)to purchase a bag of celery and a Lean Cuisine. Now this pissed me off for 2 reasons:
1) there is no emergency situation which would necessitate the purchase of a bag of celery and
2) I’m a pregnant woman who cannot spare her the extra minutes at this juncture because

I HAVE TO PEE.

If you need more convincing that this woman was taking up room on the planet that could be put to better use, here’s a bonus reason: she bought a stupid 3-point Lean Cuisine. For those who have never been on Weight Watchers, a 3-point Lean Cuisine has the lowest possible calorie total of any of the frozen boxed concoctions and pretty much consists of 3 BandAid-sized strips of compressed chicken thigh meat with faux-grill marks laid over a colorful, though flavorless mélange of frozen vegetables.

As compared to say a 5 or 6 point box, which although containing an equally hamster-sized portion, might actually be fortified by the decadent addition of overcooked pasta or non-fat cheese-food.

OK, so back to the check-out line. I told the woman, ever-so-gently, that I was a pregnant lady in need of a comfort station and that if she tried to cut in front of me I would not be accountable for what I did with the plastic grocery divider wand I was now brandishing like a light saber.

Somehow, she managed to reach out and rub my stomach without being hit by the grocery divider, but once I looked down to see her manicured nails caressing my bump through my Target maternity top (Liz Lange, stylish and reasonably priced) I think I blacked out.

I remember only the sharp sound of contact as I brought the plastic saber down on her skull.

I came to in the manager’s office, or rather, his wood-paneled cube on stilts. I cunningly got him to leave me alone for a moment by asking if I could lie down on the floor and practice my kegel exercises. Once I explained the concept, he could not have disappeared faster had a transporter room been involved.

It’s a lesson to be remembered: mention your ‘pelvic floor’ or the pithy phrase ‘clench the muscles you’d use to stop the flow of urine’ and you can instantly create a bubble of privacy.

Once alone, I got up and watched through the two-way mirror on the wall until the manager drifted away towards some shelf-stocking crisis or another and I made my hasty escape.

I am embarrased to say I don't know what happened to the woman. She very well may be dead, although I would like to point out that she does bear some responsibilty for the fate that befell her. Suffice it to say that there are a lot of hormones waging war in a pregnant woman's body, and they may seize control at any moment.

If you must approach us, use caution. So now you've been warned.