The waitress was extremely pregnant and determined to milk it for all it was worth. She made a big show of lumbering slowly to my table and when she got there she sighed, putting one hand over her lower back and stretching with a grimace. “I’m not moving too quick today,” she said.
This was apparently my cue to ask about her condition but I did not take the bait. I have an ironclad rule to never ask a woman about her pregnancy; it never ends well.
I still cringe at the memory of the Labor Day barbecue when I met an acquaintance I had not seen for a while. “Congratulations!” I said brightly, “when are you due?” Katie was stone faced. “I’m not pregnant,” she said shortly and she walked away. Katie’s best friend Beth came up a minute later. “She’s not pregnant,” said Beth. Horrified, my jaw dropped. “But on the plus side,” said Beth, “I think you just got her to return to Pilates.”
After that scene I vowed to never assume a woman was pregnant without third party verification, but I knew my old friend Amy was expecting because she told me herself. This is why when I saw her at the mall sporting a very obvious baby bump it seemed perfectly justified to ask when the baby was due. At that moment her husband joined us, carrying what looked to be a 6-week old infant. “Is this the baby you’re asking about?” said Amy coldly.
You can see why I was in no mood to start discussing the waitress’s expectations, so I offered a businesslike greeting and asked for a Diet Coke. “I’d kill for a Diet Coke,” said the waitress, adding reflectively, “I’d really like a cigarette too.” I pretended not to hear and she walked away, murmuring.
A very long time later she came back with my Diet Coke. “Sorry,” she said. “I have to pee every 10 minutes.” This annoyed me. I hate when pregnant women feel compelled to share personal details of their pregnancy with strangers. Further, hearing about the bathroom habits of the waitress was kind of a buzz kill for my lunch. I was not sure how to respond but I didn’t have to.
“Sorry,” said the waitress, “but I have to sit down,” and in a kind of stupor I watched her sit down in the chair next to me. This put me at a disadvantage and I felt bad that I really expected this woman to fetch me some food. Then I remembered that she was the waitress, so I said, “Could I get a Caesar salad, please?” She nodded. “I should have a salad,” she said darkly, “the fiber would do me good.”
The waitress made several abortive attempts to stand up, but then she shook her head. “Can you help me?” she asked and, speechless, I stood up to help her. When I finally got her to her feet she yelped, loudly. People turned to look at us. “Sorry,” said the waitress, “but Margarita just kicked me.” She smiled confidentially. “I’m naming her Margarita because that’s what got me into this mess.” She laughed out loud but then yelped again.
“She’s really kicking,” said the waitress, grabbing my hand and putting it on her belly. “Can you feel that?” I removed my hand like she had placed it on a hot stove. “I’ll take that salad now,” I said firmly, “I’m kind of in a hurry.”
“Sure, “ said the waitress, “it’s all about you,” and she moved slowly towards the kitchen.