Critical Mass

Back in the day I read the horoscopes of Tim Stephens with a fine-toothed comb every week. “He is the BEST,” I swore up and down. “He KNOWS THINGS.” But for the past 6 months, every time I think to check, I read something like this (for the coming week):

Your money picture remains good – try to increase your earnings through March 19. Even after this, to early April, financial rewards and small money opportunities will come. Soon, you’ll be able to purchase a luxury item. Work grows hectic, fast-paced through May 9. Through it all, remember that 2008 is your best spiritual and healing year in a long, long time. This is a great time to meditate, deal with counselors, “fix” your tax picture, or interface with charities and government agencies. CUSO, UNESCO, or the Peace Corps (?) await some!

Uh huh. Would my small luxury item be an infant seat for my pending child? Because I got that the other day. I hope the infant enjoys it. It claims to feature some kind of luxury foam to cushion the infant’s delicate skin and bones. Other than compulsively hitting every thrift store within sniffing radius in search of plain, wooden dining room chairs, I am so not shopping, luxury items or otherwise. Especially now that I’ve lost another hour of my day.

I was USING that hour.

I woke up this morning, it was dark, raining, four-fucking-thirty in real-time and I had spent an hour awake in the middle of the night, listening to the hippo knock itself unconscious against my internal organs. I wandered, zombie like a cloud through downtown, heading to work, sort of, but mostly just hoping not to bang into anything. If not for my many co-workers who also had shitty nights, I would have wept into my keyboard on arrival at work, but instead, I went the other way. I put that face on; the one where I get sharp and quick, my words like box cutters. My mouth is smiling but my eyes are watching carefully to make sure you got that, a barb, a quick jab. Defending myself keeps me alive. Don’t fight back, I’ll fall, deflated.

I bruised myself trying to get off the bus tonight. Goddamn people and their goddamn backpacks, excuse me, I said, barreled past them, them perhaps wondering why there was so much of me when from the neck up I do look to be a normal size, perhaps not seeing the immense belly but certainly feeling it as I thumped my way to the back door.

Five university-aged girls at the back door, guarding it fiercely, blocking my way, excuse me, I said; sorry, one said, but she didn’t move, just flattened herself against the door a bit more well thank you so much sweet thing but I am 198.5 lbs and it’s all out front you see and when I was 12 weeks pregnant I forgave you for being a space hog and when I was 20 weeks pregnant I didn’t care that you didn’t notice how tired I looked and when I was 30 weeks pregnant I preferred to stand up because it was more comfortable than sitting but now? I am done. Now? I am 34 fucking weeks pregnant and you, yes, YOU with the adorable glasses and the nice backpack and the pinkforthecure ipod have to get the fuck out of my fucking way or I will kick you with my feet and smack you with my bag and bump you with my belly to get off this bus. My baby is protected. You are all skin and bones and I will destroy you without a backwards glance.

See? I need my hour back. But since I won’t be getting it, hopefully Rob Brezsny has something good to say this week or I’m going to hide behind the couch until July, umbilical cord be damned.