This morning, a fairly crowded subway pulled up to the platform where I stood waiting. I found myself, without thinking, pulling the knot in my scarf to the side. Unbuttoning my coat. Putting my hands on my hips as I thrust my belly out as far in front of me as possible. Then, I stepped onto the car and conjured up a sad, forlorn look in the direction of any seated passenger who would catch my eye.
The way I see it, between maternity clothes and chocolate croissant cravings, I’m putting thousands of dollars a year into the local economy. To say nothing of the number of grooming products it takes to look reasonably presentable these days. The least I deserve is a damn seat on the subway for nine months out of my life.
Not getting any response, I took matters into my own hands. I approached my least favorite type of subway rider – the one who believes her purse won’t be as happy in her lap as it is in a seat of its own. In my opinion, she’s even worse than the rider who spreads his legs and takes up two seats as a demonstration that his penis is too large for him to sit comfortably any other way. The former should know better. The latter is just an idiot.
“Could you move your bag so I could sit down?” I asked the woman. She averted her eyes.
“I’m PREGNANT and I’d really like to sit down,” I said a little louder, drawing the attention of nearby passengers who were more than happy to give her the evil eye–less in defense of the poor standing pregnant lady and more in defense of their own seats.
She took her bag reluctantly into her lap and slid over two inches, hemming and hawing the whole time. I wriggled in next to her, smiled sweetly, and thanked her in a tone that was just a little too big to sound entirely sincere.
I can only assure you it was a happier ending than last week’s commutation fun, when I twisted my ankle on a midtown platform and fell to the ground in pain, while men in business suits stepped over me. New York, New York, it’s a hell of a town.