Merry F*&$#ing Christmas

Christmas shopping is not a concept that considers 8-month-pregnant women.

First -- I border on agoraphobic (fear of crowds) and hate being out in public in crowds more than I have to be... which I think either springs from, or is fueled by, my hatred of being touched. I don't like bumping into people, I don't like brushing against people, etc. It's not like a rabid hatred or anything, I'm just a person who enjoys her personal space, a lot. So take Christmas shopping into account, where everyone in this god-forsaken city is all in one place, plus the fact that I take up more square footage than an orca whale, and I get touched/bumped into/brushed against. A lot. I really don't blame my unborn daughter for kicking the shit out of me. After all, I'm causing her house to be slammed into on a regular basis. I'd be pretty pissed too.

Which yes, put crowds and Prego in one small space and I'm already irritated, PLUS getting kicked by my child AND having Braxton-Hicks contractions. I can only compare these to, imagine, if you will, walking around with your abs flexed and clenched as absolutely hard as you can. And not just a small flex and release. Flex and hold. For like five minutes. Wait an hour or so, and do it again for another five minutes. Yeah, it hurts, it makes you tired, and it kinda makes you pukey. And I'm stuck in the damn Gap or wherever around all these strangers who for one reason or another are just PISSING ME OFF... it's a bad, bad, volatile situation.

Speaking of people who piss me off -- old. Fucking. Ladies. You're old, I get it. Your time is getting closer by the second. And you're trying to shop for your grandkids, or nieces and nephews, or your 60 cats. I get that. But that does NOT mean you get to cut in line. Don't pretend you don't see it. The end of the line is back there. I know because I was back there about 15 minutes ago, and see, I'm still here. Don't you go up to that cash register like you don't see the 30 people in line waiting. And definitely don't try to squeeze in front of me. You're old? Fuck you, I'm pregnant -- very pregnant. I win. I will block you off with my unborn child. You can get behind me. Chinese cutsies. Learn it, hag, because it's the best deal you're gonna get.

Parking is another concept that does not consider the disgustingly-overinflated pregnant woman, especially Christmas parking. I see all these people getting in and out of vans in the handicap spots and think they get to park five feet from the door just because their legs don't work. That's crap. My feet are huge and swollen and maybe, MAYBE I'll be able to get my shoes off at the end of the day (my shoes that took me five minutes of grunting and struggling just to get ON). My legs are swollen and hurt just from my six hour shift of running my ass off at work. My back? We won't even go there. And I'm carrying this gigantic beach ball full of cement out in front of me, on ice, trying not to slip. Fuck you, handicap person, so you probably had your legs violently torn off in a war, or you were born without ever getting to know the joys of running through a field of daisies or something. It's sad and I'm sorry, but you know what, you can sit comfortably in your motorized Hovaround and park out in Bookooland. I have to walk. I think I deserve a handicap spot. You might think I'm being callous or insensitive, but the hormones give me an amazing sense of entitlement.

And traffic. Oh traffic. We know about my unhinged rage I have when I'm behind the wheel of a car, but put me in busy Christmas shopping traffic and I swear to you, I am amazed I have not gone into labor yet. Yesterday the traffic light in front of the mall went out, with no police officers to be found directing traffic. Common sense would dictate the need for operating like a four-way stop. Easy enough concept, right? WRONG. You would swear that society had collapsed and automobile anarchy was in effect. It was horrible. And by now, for the reasons I've listed and so many more, my patience is shot. You balk for one split second at a red light? Oh, I am honking my horn and I am furious. GO, ASSHOLE!!! And turn signals! Why is it NOBODY in the state of Indiana is capable of flicking the little switch and utilizing these things? TURN. FUCKING. SIGNALS!!!! I can feel my blood pressure elevating as I write this. I hate driving with other people on the road. I think it's probably a problem I'm going to have to overcome, but in the meantime... damn ya'll, damn.

I should really stop writing this before I send myself into labor. But if you're out shopping within these last few pre-Christmas shopping days, and see a pregnant woman, steer clear. You may think she looks jolly, but we're filled with a rage like you have never known. Approach at your own risk.