There's something about that aura women get when they're pregnant. That radiant, healthy glow that follows them around, disguising the fact that they haven't been able to sleep for days, their backs feel like they could give out at any time and that the only place they really feel like hanging out at is an Old Town Buffet.
That being said, Tuesday morning was a fiasco. A business meeting in Cincinnati required an early start to the day, shoving myself and child into a skirt suit that made us both fight for breath - quite a departure from the relaxing jeans we're accustomed to sporting. That, coupled with an early morning flight and a pair of panty hose from hell, and we're off to the motherland.
Upon arriving in Port Columbus, we made our way over to the car rental place. Rentals were strangely hard to come by on this random Tuesday in January, so I'd secured an SUV--the only decent available option. The attendant calls next and I give him my name to retrieve the reservation. He types in the information and looks back at me.
"We have a mini van available, ma'am."
A MINI VAN. Oh HELL no he DIDN'T just ask me if I wanted a mini van. Mister, I'm six months pregnant. Do you see any snot-nosed brats running around me yet? Is there spit up anywhere on my suit? Even bags under my eyes? I don't think so.
It took every bit of phat girl restraint inside me not to go off on this poor, naive little guy. He didn't know any better. He didn't realize his words were like shotgun bullets coming at me in several pieces from one direction. Obviously not a father, obviously not thinking, let it go, phat girl, let it go.
"I just can't do that yet, sir."
He laughed. I breathed. He pushed some more buttons.
"Would a Lincoln work better for you?"
"Yes. Yes, it does."
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