I got a seat on the subway yesterday.
I have been glaring at people for weeks now. I'll be standing, and a seat will open up, but not right in front of me, so in order to grab the open seat I either have to lunge like a selfish asshole, or let someone else take their rightful seat, since by New York law if the subway seat directly in front of you opens up it's yours, pregnant women and the elderly be damned.
That's why I get so pissed off when I'm standing in front of a seat and my person (yes, softly dozing octogenarian Asian man with the bag full of asparagus, you belong to me now) gets up and then the person next to them shifts over. I feel like, when that happens, I should be able to taser the person, or at least take them on Judge Joe Brown.
(Judge Joe Brown was on in the hospital waiting room when we got our ultrasound. A teenage boy was being taken to court by his grandparents for defaulting on an $1800 loan. And this boy must have been challenged, because everyone knows that daytime TV courts do not smile upon entitled, ungrateful children who swindle their elders. That's Gossip Girl you're thinking of, son, don't get it twisted!)
Anyway. I guess I could have told people on the subway that I was pregnant, but it kind of takes away from an act of kindness when you have to force it with pity. Plus, there are so many things aside from wiggly uterine growths you can't tell by looking at someone. What if I had said, "Excuse me, I'm pregnant," and the big, strapping-looking man in what I considered to be "my" seat had said, "I have testicular cancer"? What then? Would we play rock, paper, scissors? Or something without the word "rock" in it so he wouldn't get self-conscious about his ailing balls? I don't know.
That's why I needed to wait for someone to look up, notice my burgeoning belly, and give me their seat. Or, I should say, that's why I needed to push out my stomach comically and sigh until someone noticed.
(It takes a lot for a pregnant woman to get a seat these days, because people are so afraid of mistakenly offering their seat to a woman who is not, in fact, pregnant. And here is a public service announcement for those people: Just get the hell up. Don't say anything, just get up like you have somewhere else to be, like maybe over next to the charming man singing aloud to the violent rap song he's listening to on his iPod. Best case scenario, you let a pregnant woman sit down. Worst case, you let a woman who has just eaten a giant burrito sit down, and believe me, she needs it, too.)
I'll admit, I felt a little guilty, after the elation that someone had finally identified me as knocked up as opposed to just husky subsided. The man whose seat I took stood all the way to Penn Station, while I struggled to focus my attention on the cheery New York Times Magazine article I was reading about a fatal Air France plane crash. But then I caught the eye of a man across the aisle, who got on at my stop in Brooklyn and who hadn't given up his seat. And I glared at him. And then I felt better.
Motherhood is changing me so much already.