I love the Easter holidays; most years anyway. I won’t lie and say that I always take the time to reflect on Christ and his sacrifice (though I am deeply grateful for it because Lord knows I’d be a mess without it); I’m usually more about the lazy mornings and great plans…and often times the acceptance that I’m highly likely to be nursing a hangover for at least half the holiday because the body isn’t what it used to be and recovery is a mutha.
This year though, this year was different. You know the way in your head, you think you’re the cool person that everybody wants to hang out with therefore you shouldn’t be bothered about making any actual plans because you’ll be busy turning down all sorts of advances and selecting only those that appeal to your very discerning tastes? Ya. Things were a hell of a lot different this year.
I was good for Good Friday because I’d decided I was treating myself to a spa session, never mind that it was not in my budget and that I knew my account was throwing me some side eye as soon as I made that decision. I walked into Wild Earth (late, because I’d dozed off on the couch) and profusely apologised for my tardiness because I didn’t want my one hour massage reduced to 30 minutes because I should have kept time. I’m really learning how to draw out the pregnant lady sympathy these days and I have no shame. Zero. Zilch.
There I was, making sure I looked nice and tired and humble so that they’d give me their best masseuse and treat me gently. They didn’t even keep me waiting as punishment, which I was steeling myself for when I saw another pregnant lady walk in. I assumed she was on time (she was white), and almost shouted “bless you, child” to the receptionist when she gently suggested to her that they start with the mani-pedi before going in for the massage.
So anyway, I’m shown to the changing room and left to get ready. I’m excited AF! I disrobe. I pick up the disposable panties they give you and start pulling them on. They get to two inches above my knees. And stop. At this point I assume I must have put them on wrong so I remove them, examine them, ignore the very real fact (not alternative) that I had put them on exactly how big girls wear their panties, and try again. I manage 2.5 inches above my knees and hear a gentle rip. I don’t understand. Everyone is telling me I’ve barely gained any weight, never mind what the weighing scale at the doctor’s says, and I’ve been basking in the sweet, warm, caramel-y glory of being told how well I’m carrying this child and how nobody could even tell I was pregnant from the back. So why are these disposable panties trying to tell me otherwise?!
I try again, really gently. They give in and rip with no shame. I’m standing there thinking they’ve been sent to test me, and this is not what Jesus came to earth for! Now I’m wondering; do these things come in larger sizes? Should I ask for another pair? Does the spa consider these things and will I be charged for another pair? I’m not willing to admit, audibly, that my hips are not what they used to be. So I swallow the urge to tear them into little tiny pieces and set them on fire so they can feel like the hell they’re trying to make me feel when we know very well that Jesus defeated hell, and instead ball them up and throw them in the bin.
I put on my own panties, grateful that I know better than to leave the house in tatty old rags (vanity has its benefits) wrap myself in the robe – which by the way must also be free size, a lie that must be killed because THERE IS NO SUCH THING! – and head to the massage room.
I’m met by Ruth. I want to tell her what just happened to me as soon as I take off my robe and clamber onto her table. But when I notice that she has the common sense not to ask me why I’ve shown up in my own underwear, I decide to leave it. And she proceeds to give me the best mommy-to-be rub down ever! Yaani, I’m sure I moaned a little because the way she did it made me feel some typa way. I couldn’t even fall asleep because I wasn’t ready to miss out on these sensations by blacking out. No ma’am. I wanted to feel it all. Just as well I had a towel covering my eyes because she’d have seen them rolling back in pleasure and I wasn’t about to freak her out and have her calling an ambulance to save me when she was already saving me with those gifted hands.
I got off that table an hour later wanting to take her home with me. She made me forget about the panties, I was huko feeling slim and sexy again, I even did a ka-little boomerang Instagram story, my own version of sod off to the bad, bad people who came up with this very flawed size called “free size.” It is only there to torment people like me who obviously do not fit into it. May it die and never rise.
So Friday was good, right? But how about I spent the whole of Saturday – Monday waiting for a plan to fall into my lap? I was scrolling through Instagram and I wasn’t ready for the amount of fun everyone seemed to be having. I was positively jealous and wondering why I wasn’t having that much fun. Most days I’m smart enough to know that IG isn’t the truth. But I’m not rational nowadays so my brain was having none of that, and it was making me feel something I didn’t like. Not exclusion. No, this time I was feeling needy. Like, why wasn’t anyone calling me for a plan? Why did everyone look content and happy and having the time of their lives while I wasn’t? I thought I had friends, but clearly our friendships are less about loyalty and togetherness and more about “let’s leave the pregnant one alone because she’ll slow us down.”
Now, I know this is crazy, and completely uncalled for. I know I have good, loyal, busy friends. I also know that right now, I’m picky and easily irritable and to be honest I don’t like very many people at the moment (if you’re reading this, it’s not your fault, it’s Gong’s) so I can’t be bothered to call them, and ordinarily it would baffle me, this neediness.
But you know what? I’m pregnant and many days I have no idea WTF is going on with my body or my emotions, so just allow me ok? You only have to put up with this for another seven weeks or so.
Oh, and shout out to Suzzie for making the effort to reach out. Your act of kindness will not be forgotten. Besos.