A Public Body

Yesterday, I was at my desk in the middle of an important phone call with one of our company's long term consultants. I was hunkered down in front of my computer, with the work scowl (you know the one) plastered all over my face.

Our company accountant walked in and signaled that he needed to talk to me, so of course I put the caller on hold and gave him my attention. " You know," he said gravely, "you're not supposed to be eating canned tuna."

HUH?!

Last week, I visited one of my mom's work friends. As soon as I walked in the door, she began to unzip my winter coat and move aside my scarf. "What's going on?" I asked, confused and a tiny bit alarmed.

" I want to see your belly!" she demanded, not stopping the strange striptease.

I am assured that this behavior is only likely to get worse.

We live in a culture that worships the ideal of personal space. Scot and I, I must admit, are among its chief proponents. We observe the unspoken rules about distance between customers at the ATM. We'd rather stand than squeeze into the last seat on the train. We sit as close to the aisle as we can in movie theaters, never next to people if we can avoid it. We let restaurant patrons dine in peace rather than rubbing elbows at the last available, badly placed table. Most importantly, we are actively, fiercely disdainful of those who fail to observe the rules.

Ever since I became belly-icious, the rules don't apply anymore. It turns out that when a woman is pregnant, whatever her personal disposition, she should happily consent to be poked and prodded by those who don't know her well enough to know how much she hates it. She should smile as mere acquaintances rub her belly and touch her face while remarking at her "glow". They fail to see that in my case at least, this isn't glowing, it's glowering.

I do not belong to myself anymore. My very body now belongs in the public sphere. I am progenitor, rub me for luck. I can no longer be trusted to make good food choices, a 54 year old childless part time accountant must oversee what I eat.

Friends counsel patience. But I worry that I will snap.

After all, I think she can hear me and I don't want her to think that mommy is a loose cannon.

Except... it ain't all bad. Scot and I were at the Clinique counter the other day, and the saleswoman was, typically, very interested in my belly. I smiled till it hurt. Then, on the way out of the store, I opened my shopping bag and realized she had slipped me at least $50 worth of free stuff. Good stuff, including my favorite, expensive lipstick- full size tube at that. I showed off my bounty, pleased as punch.

"See", Scot laughed, "that's what you get for being nice."