The Prize You Don't Want

Last weekend, we were on the subway on our way home from seeing "A View from the Bridge" (which was very well done; Liev Schreiber was particularly excellent and also hot enough to distract me from the fact that New York theater seats were apparently designed for people with two-foot long legs, heavily padded butts and limitless bladder capacity (ONE ladies room, TWO stalls, OMG)), and -- actually, we might have been going from work to birthing class, now I can't remember and we're talking about something that happened less than seven days ago; send brain cells, please -- ANYWAY, this old man who was sitting near us stood up and all this change started falling out of his pockets and his bag.  There were coins rolling everywhere and he was frantically trying to pick them up, which only resulted in more change dropping from various places on his person (Joe:  "This guy's like a slot machine!"). 

While bending down in hapless pursuit of his escaping coins, he started dropping F-bombs in rapid succession, which didn't seem all that out of proportion to the situation although perhaps not entirely commendable in a public setting, but then he escalated it and started stomping his feet wildly while shouting obscenities, at which point we got up and moved to the other end of the car.  There's nothing quite like a 70-something year old man throwing a full-body tantrum on the subway, I tell you. 

Joe has a term for sitting next to a nutjob or bum on the subway (or having them come and sit next to you):  the booby prize.  We were on the train a couple of years ago with my parents, and a raggedly dressed man who was carrying about 5,000 plastic grocery bags filled with stuff got on and beelined for the seat next to my dad.  Joe leaned over to me and said, "Uh oh.  Jim got the booby prize." 

I seem to attract the booby prize quite a bit.  We were coming home from work a few weeks ago and a guy came and sat next to me looking reasonably normal, but once he got settled he leaned forward and put his hands on his knees and started rubbing them in a circular motion while rocking back and forth.  He did this for the entire ride, and even when several seats on the other side of him opened up (mostly by people who realized they'd gotten the booby prize too -- I didn't move because there was nowhere else to go and I am sure as hell not standing in my rotund condition), he remained practically glued to my side and continued his rocking, to the point that I was almost laying in Joe's lap to avoid bodily contact with the Knee-Rubber. 

Relatedly, and as an update to an earlier conversation, I have been pleasantly surprised by the number of people who have given up their seat for me on the train.  I'd say from about my sixth month on, this started happening more regularly.  It's still not every day, but maybe slightly more than half the time someone will let me sit down.  The rest of the time, I can tell that the people sitting in front of me are aware that I am there in all my big-bellied glory, but they hold their paper right up in front of their face or become supremely interested in their iPod so they can feign ignorance. 

Young guys in their teens and early 20s are the worst offenders; I could probably pass out or go into labor and they would pretend not to even see me.  (They are also the ones who sit spread-eagled, with their legs splayed and their hands in their pockets, elbows thrust out to the sides, so they take up about three seats, which drives me insane).  Older (50s and up) men are not much better and are the most likely to see me on the platform and then shove or elbow me aside when the train arrives so they can get on and get a seat first.  Women, predictably, give me their seats most often, but occasionally it's a guy of about my age or in his 40s. 

In fact, just last week I got onto a packed car and a guy saw me, stood up and gestured to his seat.  I thanked him and, just before I got to the seat, this middle-aged woman came BARRELING past me, out of nowhere, and wedged herself into it.  The guy and I were standing right there, so she had to have seen us, but what can you do?  We looked at each other and just laughed.  He shrugged and I thanked him again and the woman dug into her tote bag, took out a book and contentedly began to read. 

That's New York for you.

The latest pregnancy news, which I am sure you were all awaiting with bated breath, is that I have begun to experience the Fiery Lava Heartburn of DOOOOOM on a quasi-regular basis.  Tums is the answer, I have discovered, and as a bonus are vaguely SweeTart-esque.  For her part, the baby is getting crowded in there, and she likes to poke her feet into my ribs to stretch out, which is cute and sometimes kind of tickles, but other times seems to cause internal bruising.  She does an enthusiastic side-to-side shimmy a lot, too, and it's rather spectacular to watch my belly violently sway back and forth like there might be a rabid cat trapped inside it.  Then there are the left hooks to my bladder -- always a pleasure; there's nothing like peeing yourself a little in the produce section of the Whole Foods. 

Most of the time I really can't tell what's what -- is that her head or her butt?  Foot, hand, elbow, knee?  It's all very mysterious.  I wish I had a little door on my stomach so I could peek in and see what in the world this kid is up to. 

We've got somewhere between three and a half and six and a half weeks to go, though I am still counting on her to join us on the 37 weeks-ish side of full-term -- in our family, being on time means being early, you know -- and there remains the exciting question of whether she'll end up being a Pisces (before March 20) or an Aries.  We've got pretty much every bit of gear we could possibly need and a tremendous amount of adorable clothes, not to mention blankies and loveys and stuffed animals and books galore, and we've been reminding her of this a lot to entice her into the outside world (not quite yet, but SOON).  We are so ready.

I do need to get a pedicure, though, as we get closer, because I'd hate to frighten the L&D nurses with my gnarly toes.  That might be their version of the booby prize. 

Comments

[glenna]

Have you guys settled on a name for her?? :)

[nonsoccermom]

I hope she comes on March 19. That's my birthday, and therefore the BEST day. :) But I can't believe it is so close already!

I think I got the booby prize a couple times on our last trip to NYC. Yeesh.

[ar]

Trust me, you'll have plenty of opportunities to frighten the L & D nurses with body parts other than your narly toes......

[Ris]

Only the public transportation crazies in New York could top those in Chicago. Congrats, New York.

[Lawyerish]

Glenna - Yes, we have! We actually agreed on a name super early on, and will reveal it when she's born. :)

[Heather M.]

I can't wait to hear the name too...also, you must post some pictures of your nursery; I bet it is beautiful! The time is getting near...keep distracting yourself with The Bachelor if you must; personally, I just cannot get into it!

[Danielle]

I can't handle the Bachelor anymore, but I love your updates!
I am with Heather-I so want to see the nursery! I am still all squeeeeee for you!

[Danielle]

PS! How did I post that comment on this post? Oops!