I cried. It wasn’t a legitimate reason for tears like winning a gold medal or finding three coconut shells on your scratch ticket. I cried a messy red-faced pregnant wail because I did not feel like Beyonce.
Beyonce is my measuring stick for emotions, my power animal. If I’m having an awesome day, I feel just like she does–invincible, poised, put-a-ring-on-it-worthy. I bet she doesn’t worry that Jay-Z scoping out other ladies on the Big Pimping Yacht because, really, who’s better than Beyonce.
But today, my eight month pregnant body was less Beyonce and much more the former Destiny’s Child members whose names I’ve forgotten because they’re not Beyonce.
I’m feeling galactic and it’s hard to have any sliver of sex appeal when the only underwear you can fit doubles as a fitted sheet for a king-sized bed. And I know miracle of life yadda yadda, but that’s me as a mom, me as a host. What about me as a girl-you-so-fine, I just want to conversate.
I haven’t been asked to conversate in so long. The last time someone blew a low wolf whistle my way, I could see my feet if I looked down. No one asked me if I needed help out bringing groceries to my car or asked if I should be holding that box because it looks heavy.
When I walk, it takes a few steps before I turn into a heavy-breathing sweaty mess, like what Gilbert Grape’s mom would be if she could walk. And to alleviate the pain of just moving, I have a tight elastic maternity belt which is supposed to keep the pressure off my hips but instead sends my belly to suspend in mid-air, as if it’s a Ringling Bros. act that had potential until I stopped in at the Old Country Buffet and said, screw this, they’re setting up dinner.
I tried to explain this to Mike, but he’s a logical man who would hear something like his wife wailing and would answer, voice trailing, “You’re crying because…you…don’t…feel…like…Beyonce?” He once heard me answer a Jeopardy question about the Middle East with “Anwar Khadafi!!!” and had to call me out about my excited albeit totally wrong answer combining two leaders, so a plaintive pregnant cry about my state of unsexiness is just as puzzling.
What’s worse is that I’m the type of person who believes in a three-fold approach to situations like this: Cry Me a River, Build Me a Bridge & GET OVER IT.
If someone said, wahhh I’m pregnant and unsexy! I would say sistah girl, you have only a few more weeks of being a special category on sexy websites! Try thinking of yourself as a MILF! There’s no hope for me, though. I’m likely to become a MILBOIT: Mother I’d Like to Befriend Only, If That.
The only comforting thought, nay, fantasy, is that there might be someday in the future where inside a gilded mansion, past racks of furs and pearls, walls with platinum records framed in thick shadow boxes, there will be a beautiful woman with a belly full of child begging her husband to comfort her and Jay-Z will answer, “You’re sad because you don’t feel like Mona?”