I'm trying to get through my remaining weeks of pregnancy and working with some grace and dignity, but this surge of crazy pregnancy hormones has other plans in store for me. I'm extremely cranky. My co-workers aren't helping matters. I avoid the break room at all costs, because if I set one foot in there, I will face such questions as, "Are you going to breastfeed?", "Will you be delivering vaginally?", "Do you plan to have a natural childbirth?" Having a baby bump is like wearing a t-shirt that says "Ask Me About My Vagina". Is it too much to ask that I be allowed to heat up my chicken noodle soup without having to discuss my lady parts with people who, up until a few months ago, were complete strangers?
Today I am irritated (the reason isn't important) with a co-worker who Steve has only heard me refer to as "Persian Dwight Schrute." She's a tall, very thin, attractive part-time front desk employee, and her attendance record would be grounds for termination by most reputable employers. She routinely calls in sick for days at a time, only to come to the spa to hang out because she's "bored." If she isn't enjoying a free massage, pedicure, or blowdry, she likes to sit in a chair at the front desk or by the pedicure stations, her long legs folded up like origami, obsessively trimming the split ends of her long black hair with a pair of scissors for hours. I would love to tell you that this is the behavior of an 18-year-old cosmetology school dropout, but we're talking about a college-educated woman who's on the wrong side of 25. Possibly 30.