Social Niceties Run Amok

On a recent trip to a maternity clothing store I was reminded of the tacit permission that being pregnant gives to complete strangers to abandon any semblance of social grace. After speaking with other women, I see I am in no way alone. I don't visit maternity stores often, preferring to wrap my growing girth in whatever fabrics and aluminum foil I can reasonably secure around myself. I exaggerate somewhat as I am not yet at the stage of tying curtains around myself – no taboo Gone with the Wind romanticised version for me. I would have to wear blinds in our house and frankly the chafing is nothing to scoff at. I am regularly seen bursting out of non-maternity tops and the uniform black yoga pants are often called upon for yeoman's service. However, when I realize I am starting to dress like a homeless woman, I do darken the doors of said maternity stores in search of the jean that somehow restores the casual chic image I envision. Why I envision this when non-pregnant I am not a fashion icon, I don't know. Apparently I think the extra weight, pregnancy inspired acne, and general discomfort of my new form adds to my sense of fashion.

Anyway, in search of the perfect cargo or skinny jean – manufacturers of the skinny maternity jean clearly have not studied the literary devices of irony and oxymoron – I always feel a bit out of place. True, I am a pregnant woman and yes, I wear clothes, but for some reason this specialized store feels foreign to me. I feel out of place as if they may see me as a fraud or perhaps not a good pregnant woman. I have never claimed this aversion to maternity stores to be rational. Nevertheless I prevailed and gave it a shot.

My strategy – I want to see the pant, try it on, fall in love and wear said pant for the remainder of my pregnancy. Then ceremoniously retire the pant as I seamlessly revert to my pre-pregnancy size, only more muscle-toned immediately after the birth. Seriously, the pants from the Sisterhood of the Travelling Pants has got nothing on these pants.

I want to do all this without attracting too much attention of the sales people. I just want to do my thing, however ineffective and misguided. I veer towards what I know – jeans. I grab a pair and ask to try them on. Coast is clear. I may make it out with my dignity and composure until a seemingly innocent clerk asks with no prompting from me, "Now how are your undies and panties fitting?" She says this with sympathy pooling in her eyes and I feel the tug to divulge all intimate panty details to her. Now unless she had a better vantage point for viewing the effects of my undergarments then I, I have given them very little thought. If I am not spilling forth, then in my books they are fine. My first response in my head was a mature, "What's it to you?" or perhaps, "Fine. Yours?" Instead I replied with a very quick and seemingly appreciative, "Good for now, thanks". Now I don't know what circles you travel in but I don't usually discuss my bloomers with strangers. Not only do I not broach the topic to them, but they don't ask and as far as I know no one has the slightest interest in the fit of my undies.

As I walk towards the dressing room I start to fill the pinch of my underwear which I swear was not there 30 seconds ago and I ponder her pregnancy inspired question. In retaliation, I grab a pair of pants and determinedly head to the cash register to pay for them. They aren't The Pants by the way; they are simply pants that cling in all the wrong places – traitorous underwear – continuously fall down so I have to indelicately heave them up, I can only really wear them for special occasions and may actually be the wrong size. Keeping all this in mind, I pay a fortune for them and wish the cashier would hurry so I may take my pants of shame home.

Just as I believe I am in the clear, the cashier clearly believes the transaction is not quite done and asks me in an almost sympathetic voice if I have all the stretch mark cream I am going to need. I had almost made it out of the store but now I have paid a fortune for pants I don't actually want, consider my bra and panties to be conspiring against me and can actually hear the inevitable stretching of whatever abdominal muscles I ever had in the first place. All in all, a stupendous shopping experience.

I do realise that some women may enjoy having someone see to their needs as this cashier had been trained to do. It might even make someone feel pampered and special to have someone guess their pregnancy needs even before they themselves do, but to me these questions were highly personal and yes, made me feel not only pregnant but as someone no longer worthy of the same respect I was once afforded. Perhaps a more helpful approach may have been in lieu of questioning the sturdiness of my undergarments but an offer of a nice cup of tea or, heck, if you truly care a nice invigorating foot rub. After that, then we can talk undies and stretch marks. We need to at least get to first base. I may be pregnant but don't be suggesting anything untoward. I have my values.

In case you believe I am generalizing one incident to mean something more about social norms, let me continue my tirade, er...observations. I can recall on a number of occasions at work where I was the target of very open discussions. Let me be clear, when I say target I mean just that. I was not involved in the discussions at all, unless standing self-consciously in the middle of the room deflecting comments defines me as a participant. A man I worked with – sorry Man, although you are a nice guy, this needs to be written – upon hearing I was pregnant, he was clearly delighted for me. I know this because he scrutinised me and declared it preposterous that he hadn't noticed earlier. Thank you for that. I thought I had disguised my advancing pregnancy so well with the fabric and foil I had been using instead of my $80 maternity pants. Anyway, after the initial congrats were over, said man asked me how old I was and stared at me for several long moments and then into space somewhere above me and then back to me again. I wasn't sure what was going to be said, but knew the silence and age question boded ill so I was braced for impact. It was starting to look like his wisdom was going to hit hard. After what felt like a very long time, he then declared that given my age by his calculations I would have time for two children. Again, thanks so much. Do not fear for my self-esteem though, despite the comments on my ageing ovaries and my fuller figure, he then proceeded to tell me how attractive he had always found pregnant women. Hooray for me. I had a fan and what a silver-tongued devil he was.

Some time after this target practice, I was walking across the room. This same man stopped, cocked his head to the side and smiled at me. Feeling like I was missing something I succinctly said, "What?" He said he just wanted to watch me walk. Before you think I walk in some inspirational or perhaps complicated gait a la Monty Python, I can assure you I walked quite like any 6-7 month pregnant woman does in bad pants and ill-fitting underwear– as carefully and as light-footedly as possible, nothing fancy I assure you. "Now what?" I thought. I could run. Bad choice given my already alluring walking technique apparently. I could back slowly out of the room, but it's a large room so it might take a while. I opted for the deer in headlights look and refused to move until he did. No freebies here, mister. He didn't even offer that elusive foot rub. Seriously, if you love pregnant woman so much, stop gawking and do something useful.

One question that I have only recently stopped blanching at in the last few weeks is a personal favourite – When was your last menstrual cycle, commonly known in the medical world as Last Known Period (LKP)? Again, I rarely discuss my menses – love that word – with anyone and certainly not strangers, but I have shared this personal tidbit with more people that I can count. It is on every form I have handed to random medical personnel and at this point anyone who puts their hands out as I walk by. Doctors, ultrasound technicians and their receptionists to name a few have all inquired. They can't seem to get enough. I wouldn't even mind so much if there were a few lead in questions. Get a girl comfortable. How are you? How has your day been? Anything you would like to share? And then pop the question. But it is usually right there at the beginning of conversations. This date legitimizes you and then they can proceed. Okay, okay, so if you are dying to know. July 8th. It was a sunny day but with a breeze. A Monday. Happy now? I'm a changed woman – an open book.

People have always said that having children changes you, but what they don't say is pregnancy starts that change. I think it breaks down the social niceties so when you are lying there with a sad little hospital gown valiantly trying to protect your privacy with your feet above your head and screaming bloody murder during labour, it's old hat. Nice planning, Mother Nature.