So what were we talking about? Oh right. The pregnancy wave at work was turning into a tsunami and I was trying to buddy-up to some of the pregnant women in an attempt to catch the conception fever. There was one “impregnata” even I didn’t go near: Kayla. Notice all of the others I referred to as impregnata and her as “impregnata”. That’s because I would have sworn on my life that she was faking the whole thing just to fit in. It’s totally her M.O.
I’d known this chick for six years and for six of those years she’d blatantly lied about everything. I don’t mean like me telling people whom I’ll never invite over that my house is always spotless or making up a fictitious diet story to deflect fat comments: “I only have forty more pounds to go. I’ve lost two hundred and nine since college.”
Kayla lied about why she was late. Kayla lied about what work she had completed. Kayla lied about where she went to school. Kayla lied about what she had for lunch. Kayla lied to your face about the pants she was wearing while your face was standing right there looking at her wearing them. What were the chances she had chosen this moment to seek the path to honesty?
I remember when she first announced her pregnancy. We all said “Congratulations!” when we all meant “I doubt it!” This was one pregnancy I really was interested in.
We all watched her intently for months. Her belly seemed to grow at the usual alarming rate. (But so did mine. Of course, mine was caused not by pregnancy but by partnering excessive stalking with excessive snacking.) Anybody could fake a baby bump.
Determined to know for sure, around her “eighth month” I tried to con her into letting me take her bathing suit shopping. I told her I had just come from the mall and there were some really cute thong bikinis made especially for the expectant mother. She didn’t bite.
Still, we all figured that somewhere down the line she was going to reveal that it was all a big mistake. Something was going to happen. Maybe she was going to say that the baby came on her day off while she was trekking through the mountains of Tibet and he was delivered by the Dalai Lama and then made a national god so he had to live there forever and the only reason why it wasn’t on the news is because the entire CNN bureau responsible for that part of the world, (wouldn’t you know it), happened to be on a bathroom break at the time. Don’t you hate when that happens?
Or perhaps in early summer, she’d tell us with her nervous, condescending, giggle: “I never said ‘I’m going to have a baby in July’. I said ‘I’m going to Florida, maybe in July’” and that apparently we had misheard: All thirty-six of us.
I drew up a Super Bowl pool style grid and we took bets on what the wind-up of this fiasco was going to be. My money was on her obstetrician discovering during a routine ultrasound that she actually had a brain tumor that had slipped down into her uterus.
Luckily it was a simple enough procedure and because his one-thirty appointment had canceled, he would have time to put her feet in the stirrups and remove it without her having to schedule a second appointment, although unfortunately, he would have to bill her for the extra procedure which the company insurance probably wouldn’t cover.
Needless to say, I lost a bundle when her bundle o’ joy arrived. Not that I took her word for it. And I’m not totally convinced that the baby on the Christmas card is her child either. Although I must admit, I’m still having trouble explaining away the delivery room video.
Listen, I gotta go. I'm stuck in a really embarrassing yoga pose. I’d better tuck and roll my way over to the window and close the blinds. I’ll talk to you tomorrow