Well, let me qualify that by saying you never MIGHT be pregnant. You either are, or you aren’t.
During all my years of sitting in the doctor’s office, I got really tired of being asked, “Do you think you might be pregnant?” I always wanted to scream that you can’t be ALMOST pregnant! It doesn’t work that way.
This point came up again recently when Brett and I were watching a political commercial.
One of the people interviewed was a pastor. He said, “I’ve talked to people in my congregation, and they really feel like crime is down.”
I was like, “That’s ludicrous. You can’t ‘feel’ like crime is down. Either crime IS down, or it isn’t. Please.”
People, THINK, before you speak. (Physician heal thyself, huh?)
Leading with that tone, I think you might see where this post is going.
Yesterday was a crappy day. I don’t know if it’s because I’m pregnant and hormonal that people were driving me nuts, or if people are normally morons and pregnancy has just sharpened my idiot vision.
Years ago, I was talking to a friend of mine. I told her my PMS was making me very cranky with people.
“Well, now, I don’t know. Just because you have PMS doesn’t automatically qualify the people around you for sainthood. They could actually BE jerks.”
I appreciated the sentiment, and along those lines, that old chestnut – “Just because you’re paranoid, doesn’t mean people aren’t out to get you.”
In any case, people were getting on my nerves yesterday.
Allow me to explain.
I’m a nice person. I really am. I am a team player. I will do most likely anything you ask, on one condition.
That you ASK me.
I prefer it if you ask me nicely, but I’d probably still do it, if you just asked.
What I absolutely CANNOT stand is when people TELL me what to do or what not to do. This gets my back up like nothing else.
My father suffered from the same affliction. He once told me he would do anything for anyone, but if someone “painted him into a corner,” he’d come out swinging.
Folks, if you didn’t know it already, I am my father’s daughter.
Yesterday, during the course of my workday, a sum total of FOUR people gave me direct orders to do or not to do something.
I might add that none of these four people are my direct supervisor. I mean, I get it, if your boss tells you to do something, it’s different. These are my PEERS and in no way do ANY of them have any authority over me.
You can see my growing frustration in the progression of my responses to each person.
Me– “You are more than welcome to do that yourself.”
Person 1 – “I’d rather you do it.”
Me – “I’m sure you’d ‘rather,’ but if wishes were horses, beggars would ride. K?”
Me – “You’ll have to take that up with someone else. I’m not wasting my time sitting here listening to you blather about it.”
Me – “I don’t appreciate either your tone or treatment. You will not treat me like this, because I am NOT your slave.”
Me – “Do you seriously want to get started with me? The next person who attempts to tell me what to do or what not to do is going to get punched in the mouth. I am not kidding.”
See? These are rather harsh words for a nice person. But, let me fully assure you, these people were ASKING for it.
By the time I got home, I was fighting mad. I stormed in the front door and asked Brett what form I had to fill out to officially withdraw from the human race.
I proceeded to sputter out my whole day - and the idiots I had to deal with - from beginning to end.
God bless Brett. He sat there patiently, listening to every word and nodding his head emphatically. At key points, he would loudly exclaim:
“Man, I can’t believe it!”
“Are you serious?”
(And my favorite) “I’d have punched ‘em right in the mouth!”
Well, it did wonders for my downtrodden heart, just to have someone listen and affirm my (somewhat overblown) emotions.
Brett knows what it is like to come home in a foul mood.
For years, he drove into Chicago from Roscoe for work. If you know my husband (at all), you know traffic does NOT make him a better person.
For over five years, I was his sympathetic set of ears. I hope it doesn’t make me sound callous, but he OWES me this kind of behavior, and I’m not above collecting it!
My bad mood burned off within a half an hour of being home. I got comfy in my sweats, stretched out in bed, and read one of my favorite books until the buzzing in my head went away.
I know there are just days like that – days that test you – days that try a woman’s soul. But I honestly couldn’t work up a lot of introspection yesterday.
I found myself even enjoying a little bit of the mad as it rolled off my shoulders, and (for once) being able to tell people what I really think when they treat me badly.
Most people won’t hit a pregnant woman.
I know that my bad days, at least when I really feel it in my mood, aren’t all that common. So, I try not to focus on them.
As I was driving home last night, still hyped on all the anger, I hoped voraciously I wouldn’t get pulled over by a police officer. I found myself chuckling at the thought of tomorrow’s headline being:
Hormonal Pregnant Women Attacks Cop!
How dare he TELL me I was speeding!