This morning as I walked to work, a man lifting a huge bag of garbage off the sidewalk into his truck grinned and shouted, "It's a boy, gurrrrl! IT'S A BOY!" It was cute how excited he was about it. A sweet NYC moment.
Clearly the basketball is impossible to hide now. Everyone's got something to say about it.
Yet a few minutes later when I walked through the doors of the subway car I immediately, amazingly, stopped looking pregnant: Not one person offered up their seat. Most of them saw me and quickly closed their eyes to feign a snooze, pulled their hats down over their eyes, or pushed their books up to their faces. Really, fat boy in your 30's, eating Skittles, listening to your iPod and pretending to sleep? You really need that seat? What about those Skittles?
Yesterday, I got aggressive about it. As I waddled to an empty seat, a tall blonde with a Women's Fitness magazine in the crook of her arm bum rushed me for it. I suddenly was 6 years old again and suffering through a game of musical chairs (cruelest kid game ever invented); everyone had a seat but I, nobody needed it more than I, and I can't rush anywhere for anything. I felt like crying. Instead of crying, I tapped the chick who bum rushed me with a "May I sit?" She obliged. As she should've. Doesn't it feel good to help someone out? Not according to Skittle man.
Some people are observant and kind, most are selfish and unaware and totally happy fine with it. C'est la vie; jerks are here to stay.
Let's hope this kid I'm haulin' around isn't a jerk.