TWICE in the past week, whilst riding the DC Metro, contentedly sitting in one of the few and highly-coveted seats, a woman of questionable circumstances has saddled up right next to me, crammed against a dozen people and gripping the microbe-infested pole to keep from being flung across the train as the psycho driver slams on the brakes at least 5 times before pulling into the station.
Longest run-on sentence ever. My 9th grade English teacher would be ashamed.
Anyway, so there I am. Reading my book. I look up to see a huge belly staring me in the face. My first instinct is to get out of my prime seat and offer it to the belly's owner. She is clearly pregnant. Like, about to pop. Mid-way out of my seat, it hits me: Is that a pregnant belly or just a super fat one? Suddenly I find myself in a terrible bind. The kind of bind that Odysseus faced when he was caught between the 6-headed sea monster and the whirlpool death trap. Yes, people, we're talking a bind of Homeric proportions.
WHAT DO I DO? Risk looking like a complete tool for not giving up my seat for a pregnant woman, or risk looking like a tool for assuming an obese woman is pregnant? It's a lose-lose. Major tool-age either way you look at it.
So I did what any short, blond, educated, God-fearing girl would do and kept my prime seat and continued to read my book. And avoided eye contact at all costs. Both times.