Stork on a train

It happened on All Saints Day. Appropriately.

The next step in my life process finally came to head. I've been worrying for so long, but now it's happening, at last. On November 1, 2007, I learned that I was pregnant.

See, there's St. Fatima piously beaming her light over my unborn child. St. Anthony and St. Guadalupe look on, supporting the apparent out-of-wedlock birth to-be. (Things are changing.)

Don't be surprised. After all, I only advertise one persona on this blog. This is coming from the next expert on female sex terminology (see previous post, if curious). I am not a contradiction, I am a myriad of yes.

Do you know how I learned of my pregnancy? A woman on the subway told me. New York is a truly incredible place. We've got subways riding under skyscrapers, accordian players and acrobats performing street-side, and now, to add to this list, we have walking pregnancy tests.

Was this woman a gynecologist? I doubt it. Did she touch me? Ask for urine? Inquire about my sexual behavior? No, no, and no. Wait, she did touch my roommate. Perhaps this is how she found out about me and my secret womb.

On the fecundly unfurling morning of All Saints Day, my roommate, who we'll call Talker, and I boarded the subway together, delighting in the sparse showing of commuters. She claimed a seat, I stood in front of her. Everything was fine until 103rd street. That's when the seer, Ms. EPT, climbed on our train car.

A representation of Ms. EPT sans sweatsuit.

Across the floor, she scuttled, waving her cane ahead of her sweatsuit clad body. The woman sitting beside Talker allowed Ms. EPT to take her seat, and so, Ms. EPT swung around, her cane flailing, and landed not upon the seat but Talker's right side. Her entire right side and right-center, in fact. No light-weight, Ms. EPT managed an "excuse me" as she slid her bulbous frame into the orange seat. I could see she had little patience for such niceties; the music from her cheap plastic headphones demanded her full attention.

Wah ah uhhhh. Baby! Waaah Ah Uhhhhh. I stood stupefied, staring into Ms. EPT's scrunched-singing face. My face asked Talker, Who sings on the train? She shrugged, quiet. The vessel was silent but for Ms. EPT's utterances.

One ditty sounded familiar. "Is that .... ?" I started, asking Talker for some Ray Charles knowledge, who made a face and shook her head. The broad, flat (read: scary and incoherent) delivery of lyrics let me know I would never understand the song and pain of Ms. EPT. But then I decided I wouldn't care.

As we hurtled past 50th Street, Ms. EPT momentarily emerged from her musical state and gracefully asked, "What month you in."

"Um ... excuse me?" Slightly stunned, my eyes widened.

"You're pregnant?"

I think my face turned 10 shades of red before settling on "Beyond Embarassed, #49." Talker looked at me, and, as expected, said nothing. She may have been stunned too. But then Talker's neighbors gawked at me, waiting for my response. All of a sudden, the whole subway car wanted to know if I was pregnant.

"I'm not pregnant. I think you're mistaken. See, the shirt I'm wearing, it's billowy, see?" I pinched at my shirt and lifted it from my self, letting it fall back down, demonstrating my point. I wondered if it was my fault that she thought I was pregnant. Had I been shopping in the maternity section of Old Navy?

"Well, sure looks like you could use to lose a few. Mmmhmm." Song lyrics? Not even close. A moment later. "Didn't mean to offend."

"It's okay." I turn to Talker. "Is it okay!?" She shook her head, again. Not a word spoken.

I laughed politely because this is OBVIOUSLY the only correct response to some homeless chic betty telling you you're fat.

We arrived at my stop, 42nd street. "You have a good day," Ms. EPT said.

"Yeah ... ?"

When I left the train, Ms. EPT continued the conversation with Talker, who began to talk, at last.

"I hope I didn't offend your friend."

"Oh, don't worry." (This would not have been my response, by the way.)

"Maternity is a beautiful thing."

I'm sure Talker nodded, though her affirmation was omitted from her report to me.

Right. Ms. EPT thought I was SO BEAUTIFUL that she told me I was pregnant. As a compliment.

Should I have felt insulted? Probably not, since Ms. EPT also goes by Ms. CRAZY, I think. Next time we meet I can only hope that she'll comment on my smile or my eyes instead of my midriff.