Don’t mean a thing if it ain’t got that mood swing

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Good, though remarkably unsurprising, news: I’m not pregnant.

Well, okay, there’s a tiny chance I may be, but only if there’s been some divine intervention at work. It’s possible. There’s precedent.

Short of miraculous conception, there is no conceivable—ha, ha—way that I’m pregnant. I am not a biologist, but I did make an A in Honors Biology in college (and I can prove it; earning an A in that class was so very extraordinary that the Biology Department gave out certificates to prove it. I still have mine, somewhere.)

Though I can no longer recall the intricacies of the ATP chain, I can tell you with perfect assurance that human conception does not happen unless a sperm gets cozy with an egg. My womb has been living in quiet solitude for an extraordinarily long time, certainly longer than the nine months required to carry a baby to term. No inquisitive sperms (or eggs, for that matter) have come remotely near my own reproductive organs in ages. And ages. And ages.

I have not visited any fertility clinics. Nor have I been abducted my aliens, unless they were mighty quick about it, and I think I’d have noticed.

I am, therefore, not pregnant, not unless I’m carrying the second Messiah, and my period ended just a few days ago so I doubt that’s it.

Why are we even discussing this?

Because I’ve been having some crazy mood swings, the type I normally associate with pregnant women. I know all about pregnant women and their behavior. I worked in a maternity store for two years (which, in my estimation, should knock two years off my sentence in purgatory), and believe me, I know about pregnant women. They’re crazy. They are absolutely apeshit. Some of them are marvelously happy, some of them are mortified, some of them are scared, but all of them are, without exception, certifiably insane.

No idea why I’ve been so moody. I don’t think it’s a fault of my regular hormones. I’m not taking any drugs, I haven’t had a drop of alcohol in weeks, my life has been normal.

Maybe it’s stress from the book?

Maybe it’s the godawful holidays?… Yeah, let’s blame the holidays. They have a special, wicked ability to make anyone feel lonely and sad. “April is the cruelest month,” is it? Bah. December is. I like the true meaning of Christmas, i.e., the birthday of Jesus and getting presents, but all the stuff about being with family and friends? Ugh. Holiday fervor emphasizes how few friends one has, and how far distant family is.

(See? I am whining. I am feeling sorry for myself. I try not to do this publicly, because it is all sorts of pathetic, which just goes to show how yucky I’m feeling.)

My weird mood has manifested in some spectacular ways. I noticed it in yoga last night, right at the very beginning, well before we got to any of the difficult poses. I was sitting on my mat, legs crossed, eyes closed, doing basically nothing. (I think I was supposed to be concentrating on tranquility or somesuch, but I’m not very good at that.)

So I’m sitting there, trying to look all meditative and enlightened, listening to Yoga Instructor Jennifer guiding us through the first few moments.

“Breathe deeply,” said Yoga Instructor Jennifer.

“Fuck that,” I thought. “You can’t tell me what to do.” And I commenced not to breathe at all for half a minute, just to be defiant.

“Breathe deeply.” We’re not talking about a major imposition, here—and for the record, I deliberately pay her money to tell me what to do.

But no, I was feeling belligerent. Absurd, I know, but I was cranky and cantankerous. I spent almost the whole class feeling weepy.

(Almost the whole class. There were two poses that drew me out of my bad mood, probably because they were difficult. Hard to feel much of anything when you’re on all fours but upside down, i.e., when you are in a full backbend. Also hard to feel anything except a sense of accomplishment when you are in your very first handstand. Granted, I needed help to get up there—but I managed it all by myself when I got home that night, and then again this evening. I am nearly ready to go to clown school, I think. Goodbye, library! Hello, circus!)

Why was I all sniffly and depressed during yoga? Don’t know, but I resolved that the only way to make myself feel better was to get takeout Chinese. Which did make me feel better, except that it probably added a pound to my tummy, which makes me feel worse. Paradoxes! Can’t live with ’em, can’t live without ’em!

My inexplicable grouchiness reared its head again this afternoon, though in this case it was quite explicable, now that I think on it. Because I do not talk about patrons here, I can’t give you identifying details. (I talk about patrons generally, but not specifically.) But here are the essentials: I wear a nametag, but at the time of this incident, my scarf was inadvertently obscuring my name. Rather than asking for my name, this patron leaned over the desk and moved my scarf out of the way, brushing his finger against my breast in the process.

Thing is, I think he was just clueless. I am quick, perhaps too quick, to see sexual impropriety. It’s a defense mechanism born of years of creeps, jerks, pervs, and weirdos. But because I have encountered so many creeps, jerks, pervs, and weirdos, I’m pretty good at spotting men who aren’t. This guy wasn’t. I really don’t think he was copping a feel. He was just insensitive to the standards of personal space. Way insensitive.

Wish my anger had manifested itself then, as opposed to the beginning of yoga class, which is about the most peaceful setting imaginable. If I could manage to summon my ire at useful moments, I could have told this guy off. Even if he didn’t mean to do anything inappropriate, the fact remains that he touched my breast. That’s not acceptable.

(So, if it’s unacceptable, why did I accept it? I have a college degree in women’s studies and a passion for feminist activism. If I can’t confront these people, who can?)

But don’t worry: I am sure I will have my spirits restored when I go to clown school. If red rubber noses and hilarious wigs can’t fix me, nothing can.


6 responses »

  1. Dang, that is a crappy day. Come hang with us for Christmas. You can help put zombie Jesus in his creche.I’m sorry you weren’t able to summon the ire at the appropriate moment.

  2. The Queen of Claremount

    You don’t like to be stereotyped – don’t stereotype pregnant women!! I had a great time being pregnant, practiced rugby up through my 6th month, and dont think I was at all insane during that time – although I looked like a barrel with legs. I probably should have had 12 kids b/c I loved it!I’m convinced that my crappy attitude of late has to do with money – or, more appropriately,the lack of it. Accodring to "The Secret", we need to project an air of optimism if we want to get out of being in debt – of course, this asshole was being paid money to make a bad movie! Of course he was happy!I’ve got you beaten, hands down, by how many creeps, jerks, pervs, and weirdos have ‘accidentally’ touched my boobs. But maybe next time you could respond, "Sir, do you mind if I touch your teeny tiny penis?"

  3. I don’t mind if you stereotype pregnant women. Although I tend to err on the side of just guessing that everyone’s insane, myself included, to cover the bases.Re: the perv. And THERE you have yet more proof for my "no nametag wearing" policy at work. Sure I take a lot of shit for it from the higher-ups. But you know what? Our patrons don’t need to know my name or have anything on my boob to touch, and if they can’t tell I work there from me being behind a desk, shelving, or trying to look helpful, then I am not doing my job. I always think of Erma Bombeck’s great line when it comes to nametags: (when someone slapped a nametag on one of her boobs) "That’s great! Now, what should we name the other one?"

  4. Deena,No, no, that’s theologically unsound. There’s no zombie Jesus at *Christmas*.Queen: I was making broad generalizations for the sake of humor, not to be a stereotyping meanie. For the record, I think it would be really neat to be pregnant, to deliver a baby, and to nurse. I just wouldn’t know what to do with the kid after that point. (And we will compare numbers of "accidental" boob touchings when I reach your age. Give me time.)Nonanon! You’re probably right, I’d probably be much happier with no nametag (or no top at all, as discussed in a chapter of Stacked; have you read it yet?) But I do like wearing it. Seems all friendly-like. And at least I don’t wear it on my ass. Think of the problems *that* would cause.

  5. Congratulations on not being pregnant. I hope you didn’t angst over it for too long, especially since it was impossible and all. Yea..I know what you mean with the insane pregnant women. I was of the crazy happy variety and I don’t mind saying if it weren’t for the bowling ball in the stomach and ,well, the ensuing child…I would love to feel that way all the time. I imagine that’s how Santa must feel, large and bloated but yet still impossibly jovial.Anyways, whatever you do do not attack your Yoga instructor, I think that causes like triple bad karma or something.

  6. eleemosenary archivist

    Dang,blast,rats & toadstools.. Will figure this out,(probability?)One needn’t be overwhelmed with outlandish numbers of holiday greetings,but persons secure enough(as the non-pregnant one is} are to be congratulated for havin a decent outlook on life whatever Wiccan-Judeo-Christian umbrella covers their nuclear family niceness. Greetings to parents in Weaverville 7 goodnight Mrs Calabash where ever you are (as Jimmy Durante used to say} out-2-you.


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