I've realized something big about being pregnant: It is probably the closest I will ever come to being feeling like a celebrity. Don't feel like standing during rush hour? Have a seat, pregnant lady! Coach bag needs repairing? Why don't we just waive that pesky $20 shipping fee - you've got diapers to buy! Stuck on a long flight home in a middle seat? You'd be much more comfortable in the bulkhead! Gotta stretch those swollen legs! Ladies smile at me. Homeless people congratulate me. I can use any bathroom I want, no matter how fancy. I feel like a princess! A cranky, round princess! Of course my husband hates it, mostly because he's terrified that I'll become accustomed to the treatment. His greatest fear is that someday I'll become an actual celebrity - in other words, an instant nightmare. (Matt just shouted out, "Find one person who'd disagree with me!" Nice.) But see, here's the thing: once the kid's out, it's over. Done. I guaran-damn-tee you Coach wouldn't be half so quick to eat twenty bucks if I walked in with a squalling toddler in tow. I figure I've got roughly fourteen more weeks to pimp this belly before the party's over and if you think I'm not going to work it to an inch of its life, you don't know me at all.
Now point me towards a fancy bathroom.