Kim
and I pulled into the Canadian Tire parking lot. It was lunchtime,
it was raining, I was scanning the area for The Closest Spot
Possible.
A shiny black SUV pulled into the maternity parking spot.
(For the uninitiated, maternity parking is positioned right
next to the handicapped spots. They are in close proximity
to many new mall entrances.)
A lone man was driving the SUV. No pregnant woman in sight.
I scoffed, and slowed down, and waited to see if he was actually
going to park there. He parked, got out, and walked away toward
the store.
Suddenly, feeling brazen and annoyed, I rolled down the
window. Where on earth did I suddenly find the balls? I wonder.
"Excuse me?" I said, not quite yelling, but raising my voice.
"That spot is RESERVED for pregnant women."
The fellow turned and walked toward the car. He was large.
He was middle age, he looked like a bit of a jock. I say he's
a jock, although I don't know this for sure. It's easy to
stereotype a big guy who is driving something that is so clearly
compensating for something else that is lacking.
He gave me a look, the kind of look you give people who
have surprised you in a not-so-good way. A kind of "what-the-hell-are-you-talking-about"
look.
Suddenly I felt a bit afraid, after all, he was a big guy
and I am not so big. So I delivered a line which was an attempt
to deflect blame on my part.
"I know that they've handed out tickets for that here."
This made me out to be something of a good samitarian. After
all, I'm trying to help him avoid a ticket. Right?
He scowled at me, leaning forward into the statement that
he was preparing to deliver: "My wife is 42 weeks pregnant.
I just dropped her off at the door."
Uhh....
"Ok, that's great!" And I pulled away.
Kim and I laughed. 42 weeks? What is she doing shopping
at Canadian Tire? Surely he was making this up. Surely this
pregnant woman is a figment of his imagination, and he just
picked "42 weeks" because that's something he heard on a National
Geographic "Life of Animals" documentary. Giggling, we went
into the store. Sure enough, there they were, looking at a
display right near the entrance.
And yes, she was visibly pregnant. But I wouldn't peg her
at 42 weeks. I think he got the dates mixed up.
Red-faced, I went up the first aisle I saw, Kim went up
another, pretending not to know me. We met at the other side,
laughing.
As we walked around (I was perusing various kinds of duct
tape, and later, children's bike helmets) and no matter where
we turned, they seemed to pop up somewhere nearby.
I was slightly afraid of a confrontation. I suddenly had
this awful remembrance of what it was like to be pregnant
and overdue. You know what, I didn't want to risk facing a
pregnant woman on a hormone-induced rampage. No one should
ever attempt to do this. It's like facing a mad rhinoceros
wearing nothing but your socks. You're exposed, vulnerable,
and in big big trouble. We've all known pregnant women. We
know what they can be like. We all know what they're capable
of when they are angered or irritated with stupid trifles.
We all know that their balance is off-centre, and if one was
to fall over on you "accidentally" then, well, you'd be crushed.
I have *been* that pregnant women, crabby and cranky and
hurting from lack of sleep, from carrying the equivalent weight
of a watermelon around with you, and having the aforementioned
watermelon press down on your bladder and squeeze your stomach
up through your esophagus night and day...
Pregnant women often use the phrase, "I feel like a
beached whale," to describe themselves. This is not an
exaggeration.
My
point: don't mess with a pregnant woman. 
