This morning I gasped awake and threw off my pink eye mask, which clashed with my flannel red santa dog pajamas and realized I had forgotten to wake up. "You're supposed to remind me!" I told Sweet Pea who usually wakes me up with kicks if I try to sleep in. She probably just shrugged. Or sucked her thumb. Hopefully she's not rolling her eyes yet.
I felt like a wreck this morning. I had overslept an hour and the dress I picked out needed to be safety pinned to avoid too much cleavage. I peeled it off and tried another one. This one would work if I wasn't required to move throughout the day because my growing belly was stretching it as far as it would go. Frantically I was ironing a green sweater, trying to calculate what skirt I could still put on--but my mind was still muddled with sleep and weird pregnancy dreams. Where was my belly band? Why did I dream I worked at Reckless Records last night? Then it occurred to me- I'll wear the dress my mother in law got me for Christmas. I'd kept the tags on it, because it's more for spring/summer.
Somehow I managed to get outside clothed and carrying a purse. But- oh good, yes, also wearing shoes. Hot pink adidas with holes in them, but they are still shoes by most standards. But where was I going? bus? train? cab? I walked in one direction past Danny's coworker who lives across the street and brings her dog over to poop in front of our apartment. (I take it as an insult, but maybe that's pregnant paranoia). Then change my mind and walk in the other direction, waving at the coworker and her insulting poop dog again. I try to get into a cab for a few minutes before I realize the cab driver in his thick accent is telling me no, he's waiting for someone who called him. "Oh." I murmur in a dreamy haze and catch another one.
In the cab ride, my baby alarm clock goes off. (A few kicks). "A little late" I tell her. I'm going to be a half hour late. So I decide I might as well get a ham and cheese omelet and a croissant. Hey, if I'm going to be late, I might as well smell like American cheese.
I'm reading this book right now by Anne Lamott about the first year her only son was born. It's excellent, and the section I'm in now is all about how she feels like a total mess. Part of me feels consoled, that I feel like a mess, but maybe it's okay because she did too. Then part of me feels dumb because she feels like a mess after she's a single mom with a newborn. I'm already a wreck and my baby's neatly folded inside me still, very low maintenance other than the ocasional demanding for ice cream or croutons. How bad will I be when she's out here crying and pooping everywhere?
In the cab ride I feel less like myself as I hear the radio. People dying in Syria, people being interviewed on the street saying they had to overdraw their bank account to get gas to go to work, people saying they were going to vote for Santorum or "Mick" Romney.
But guess what? One coworker wasn't even here when I got to work! And he's not even pregnant so he's got less of an excuse. So I sit at my desk, ham and cheese leaking out of the corners of my mouth, my curly hair frizzing in all directions as if trying to escape, and people keep telling me I look cute in this dress. I feel like I'm fooling them. And for that I think I deserve some M n Ms.