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Not Pregnant, Just Fat

At 00:00 today I was in a bloody good mood. I had just turned 30, hosted another successful monthly Jam Session at the local Jazz bar and was having a great post-jam conversation with the fabulous Noel McCalla.

But by 00:01 I was in a foul mood; my conversation and positive state of mind had been rudely interrupted when a drunken moron pointed at me and shouted: “look, she’s drinking and she’s pregnant!” 

This shouldn’t have come as a shock as this has happened to me at least once every three months since I was 18 years old. I used to take advantage of my ‘phantom’ pregnancies and allow people to give up their seats for me on public transport, carry my bags or tut at me when they saw me smoking, which I always found hilarious. But, since losing a whopping 50 pounds in weight, it’s started to piss me right off. Now, when a builder shouts: “let the pregnant woman cross the road!”, instead of ignoring him, this happens:

Builder: “Let the pregnant woman cross the road!”

Me: “I’m not pregnant”. 

Builder: “Are you sure?” 

Me: “Yes. I am definitely sure”. 

Builder: “Well, I would get a test if I were you. I’m always good at telling when the Mrs is”.

Me: “Is it possible to be pregnant when you haven’t had sex in over a year?”

Builder: “Er….” 

Me: “Would YOU like to get me pregnant so your prophecy hails true?”

Builder: “Er…”

Me: “Perhaps I’m the virgin Mary?” 

Builder: “Er…”

Me: “Or maybe, you have just pointed out, rather publicly, that I’m fat?” 

Builder: “I’m sorry… it’s just, you look it”. 

Me: “You can stop now”.

Builder: “I could have sworn..”

Me: “STOP! NOW!”

I then walk home as quickly as possible and cry like the big baby I don’t have in my wobbly stomach. And, I start to over analyze; what can I do in order to convince myself I really don’t look pregnant? And why do men think I look pregnant? 

• The obvious: I’m overweight
• But, my excess weight is on my lady lumps and booty, not my stomach. 
• In fact, my bottom and chest are disproportionally large in proportion with my waist and my face is disproportionally slim. 
• Perhaps they see my slim face and mammoth lady lumps and think “she’s either a freak of nature - so perfect is that curvaceous physique - or, she’s pregnant”? 
• Perhaps I glow with radiance? My friends often say so but could it be grease from the E45 cream I lather myself with to keep my eczema at bay?

And what annoys me the most is this: I have never been pregnant, have no desire to get pregnant and if I wanted to, I’d find it bloody difficult as I have a health condition called PCOS. Added to that, I haven’t had ‘any’ for quite some time so it’s all a blatant slap in the face.

There is nothing ruder than asking a woman if she is pregnant when she is not; if you get it wrong, you suffer the guilt and embarrassment of false assumption AND make a woman feel really shit about herself too. Despite this, many men feel it is ok to ask this question. Why is this? I certainly don’t ‘get’ it. Perhaps they are quite simply insensitive bastards? Men can be pretty clueless. After all, I have never been asked this question by a woman. Funny that.

Either way, each time I have been asked “are you pregnant”, I have wished I responded differently. So, over the years I have compiled a list of ideal responses and I would like to share a few of my favourites with you now. Do feel free to steal them if you too suffer with not being pregnant. 

Man: “Are you pregnant?”

Me: “No. But there’s time… *wink*”

Man: “Are you pregnant?”

Me: “I am indeed pregnant: with desire, for YOU”.

Man: “Are you pregnant?”

Me: “No, but I am incubating a very large fart. Stand back”.

Man: “Are you pregnant?” 

Me: “Yes! I’m due next week!”

Man: “Really? You don’t look THAT far gone”.

Me: “Funny that…”

Man: “Are you pregnant?”

Me: “I’m pregnant with 10 pounds of steak at present, so yes. And I regularly give birth via my arsehole but instead of taking 9 months to come to fruition, it only takes 9 minutes! Would you like to see it? It’s only brown because the father is African”.

So, at a minute past the stroke of midnight today, only one minute since I had turned 30, when the latest moron yelled: “she’s pregnant!” I seethed with anger. I was in the moment and when you are in the moment it’s very hard to recall a clever list of ‘ideal responses’ - only a scripted film star can do this with finesse.  

Moron: “Look, she’s drinking and she’s pregnant!”

Me: “I’m not pregnant”

Moron: “Are you sure?”

Me: “Of course I’m fucking sure, are you a complete moron?”

Moron: “Oh…”

Me: “Just out of interest, why do you think I look pregnant?”

Moron: “You just do”.

Me: “It’s called being overweight love. I have a bit of a belly. But, looking at yours, it’s bigger than mine. Are you pregnant?”

Moron: “Hahahahahahaha…”

Me: “I’m going to say this and I’ll say it only once. You NEVER and I mean NEVER ask a woman if she is pregnant unless it is out here like a shelf, you cunt. Do you understand?”

Moron: “Hahahahahahaha…”

Me: “Why? Because it’s fucking rude”.

Moron: “Hahahahahahaha…”

I walked away from the moron and had a moment: “I’m 30 now and I feel all powerful. Why don’t I go and stand up for myself? I’ll only regret it if I don’t”. 

The moron didn’t notice I was standing behind him. The moron didn’t know I had studied Shotokan Karate for 9 years as a teenager. The moron didn’t know I had a pretty good front kick. The moron didn’t know what was coming his way. As I raised my plimsoled foot I felt strangely empowered and vaguely super-heroic. I front kicked him with all the power of an angry, non-pregnant, karate goddess and I kicked him good and proper wear the sun doesn’t shine. He lurched forward, spilling his full pint down his big belly and crotch. 

Me: “I think your waters just broke love… hahahahaha….”

I sauntered away like a cool and classy vintage film star, only with an arse so big you could rest a pint on it. 

Later, I did regret not using my: “I’m pregnant with a ten pound steak” response but you know what? I felt really proud of myself and I didn’t go home and cry. 

P.S. As today is my 30th birthday, would someone please buy me this jumper?

Emilie The Extreme

I have a problem. 

Since the age of 14 I have been single for a total of 10 months. I’m 30. 

The latest episode in my cumbersome love life resulted in an epiphany of sorts and I did the maths.

The sum of my relationship anguish is 15 years and two months. A painstaking 15 years and two months of emotional bull shit. In finer detail: 132,840 hours, 7,970,400 minutes or 478, 224,000 seconds.

And of those 15 years and 2 months, I have spent 5 years with depressives, 4 years with abusers, 3 years with stalkers, 2 years with alcoholics and 1 year and 2 months with a cross dressing fetishist. 

I have had 17 serious relationships, 8 marriage proposals, 7 live-in lovers and three engagement rings.

In light of my recent epiphany, I phoned my close friends and family for their low-down on my extreme love life. When I asked the dreaded question: “if someone asked you about me and my relationships, what would you say?” they responded as follows: 

“Emilie had just come out of bad relationship when I met her. I thought it was a one off” - Kate, friend and fellow sufferer 

“In the past Em has ‘chosen’ anyone just to be with someone” - Louise, concerned best friend

“I wish she’d just go out with a nice man who wears a suit, has a job and doesn’t smoke or drink. Her boyfriends always look like hippies, move in straight away and sponge off her” - Sandy, exasperated mother

“…I’m always surprised by her choice in men. She doesn’t go out with the kind of guy I’d expect her to; she’s motivated, ambitious and on it and they always seem quirky but lost” - Jill, friend and Diplomat. 

“A new one for Christmas” - David, father

“Every year a different man moves in. Where do they all come from?” - Tony, neighbour

“Emilie is a free spirit. She goes wherever the wind blows but right now, she’s flying free. I only hope it stays that way” - Grandmother

Now, I am a strong, successful and independent women. Despite this, I often end up with men who are flawed beyond belief. I like to justify my behaviour by saying I’m tolerant; after all it is a great quality to accept people as they are and we all know that men can’t be changed. But this poses the question, when does tolerance become desperation? 

And why do I, a successful and independent women, ‘choose’ these men as my friend Louise suggests?

I don’t think I’m the only woman who has been in a string of unhealthy relationships to fulfill  a strong need for romantic love. The reality is that as a single person of 6 months, I’m happier than I have ever been. But I am scared that I’ll instantly fall in love with a reprobate should the possibility present itself to me. 

And so, I have decided to compile a list of flaws that are simply not acceptable in any relationship. And I would like your help.

To get the list started, here are three flaws that I feel are non-negotiable:

• Don’t pay for the first date. My most recent romantic episode started with my date phoning me: “I’m really embarrassed but I’ve left my debit card at home, and don’t have any money with me”. Instead of rearranging the date, I replied, “aw sweetie. Don’t worry! You can pay next time!” Not only did this result in him thinking I was minted and expecting me to pay for the subsequent 3 dates, I had also committed myself to seeing him again before I’d met him. And, I had to give him his bus fare home.

• Non-Nasal Bogies. I was once proposed to by a man who had mouth bogies: a sticky residue that permanently resided at the edges of his very wide mouth. He gave the most fabulous oral sex but I have a sensitive gag reflex which kicked in whenever he lent in to kiss me. 

• Body Odour. “I don’t wash very often”, a date once said. “Does that bother you?” 

Any woman who is too tolerant, a tad desperate or generous of heart can look on this in times of need.

So, what would you count as a non-negotiable flaw and why?

*This article is my first post for Lancashire Style Magazine where I write ad-hoc articles about anything that takes my fancy and will soon host the Agony Aunt column. 

Tits

As I descended the escalator that cold Saturday afternoon in January, I looked at the mirrored wall opposite and perused my fellow elevator-ees. I’m always eager for new literary inspiration; the heavily mono-browed women behind me inspired an interesting character description in the novel I’m working on, and the guy a few people down was rather cute. And as I continued to scan the descending single-file cue, I noticed a very busty women and said to my friend ‘Classy’, “that woman has massive tits…definitely bigger than mine”. 

“Which woman?” Classy asked, not believing it could be possible.

“That one!” I almost yelled as I rudely pointed to the mirrored wall.

I realised that the woman I was pointing at had long wavy blonde hair; she was wearing a gray jacket from the mens section in Primark and she was pointing back at me.

“Oh my God”… I said to Classy. “My tits are so large, I don’t even recognise myself!” And we got off the escalator and walked to the car.

“I’m a walking tit” I said, and started to sulk.

After my rude awakening, I sulked all the way home and thought about my breasts for the remainder of the day. 

Blonde moment aside, they do feel like they are a ‘normal’ size. But, I am unfortunately brought back down to earth by the lewd comments of men in bars, the jealous admiration of female friends and the boyfriends who can’t stop groping them.  Having owned them since I was 18 - when they literally sprouted from a B to a GG cup overnight - of course they feel normal to me; after all, I have been wearing them for 12 years. 

Despite my acquired sense of normalcy, I have a strange relationship with my fun bags. I’ve always secretly longed for their former C cup glory; when they weren’t so big I’d knock people out by doing a simple little titty shake on the dance floor.

I’ve become an artist at covering up my knockers. A good round necked T shirt can do wonders for cutting the ‘visual’ size of a breast in half.  

I know it’s poncy to take a picture of oneself in a toilet mirror, but this is purely to emphasise my tit-slimming-artistry. They don’t look that big? No? It’s cos I got SKILLZ!! And I’m wearing a properly fitted bra.

I just can’t stand women whose breasts hang out of their bra because they are scared of wearing the correct size. It’s only a number! And what is attractive about a women whose excess breast tissue spills out at the sides and over the top of her bra? An ill-fitting bra often creates 6 ‘mini’ breasts that wobble around all over the place, aka ‘6 tit syndrome’.

Until 2002, my friend Poppy openly claimed she was a 34C (she also used to boast about her ‘satellite dish nipples’). I fear her declaration of 34C-dom was indeed a self-cajoling effort to believe this was actually true. When she started displaying the symptoms of ‘8 tit syndrome’, I begged her to go to bravissimo for a proper bra fitting. She finally followed my advice and was both shocked and happy at the outcome. She was shocked to be declared a 32G - which for a woman, is almost as bad as finally weighing yourself after putting it off for months, only to find you are a stone heavier than you thought. But, she felt ecstatic as she would finally enjoy full breast support and all the wonders it can bring. Poppy has never looked back; her parents even buy her bravissimo vouchers for Christmas.

In the past, when I’ve gone to bed with boyfriends for the first time they’ve made an assortment of comments: 

“They are much bigger than I thought!”

“Where did THEY come from?”

“Wow, you weren’t exaggerating when you said they were big!” (I like to warn them before I unveil).

“They’re amazing/huge/scary/like jelly-on-a-plate!” (Thanks Dave M).

I’m a con-artist in that way. Because of my fabulous tit-slimming-artistry, they think they’re getting a good handful when in reality they’re getting a fucking huge handful. And when I meet their best mate ‘Jon’ for the first time, I always spot him sneaking a glance at my tits.

I’ve poured pints on the crotches of men who have said, “look at the tits on that” and I have been ‘removed’ from pubs for doing so. I have argued with women who think my tits are fake and have even let them feel me up for proof. The man in my local Indian used to stare so ardently that once I moved my face to his line of vision. He hasn’t stared since. And, I used to pray my love sacks would never surpass my mothers mammoth feeders. I think we’re about even.

Only a couple of weeks ago my friend ‘Thumbassalina’ came to stay. For a laugh she put her head in one cup of my bra and I put my head in the other. My bra was too big for both of our heads; an oversized bonnet if you will. And this made me sad.

My tits do have plus points though. They are very handy for keeping stuff in. I don’t need a handbag on nights out because everything fits; money, house keys, lipstick, mascara. I can even hide my mobile phone down there and no one notices. And, at the end of the night when I get ready for bed, it’s not uncommon to find a stray £10 note. Bonus!

And so, I have a love-hate relationship with my lady humps.

Don’t be fooled by this photo. You might look and think, “they’re not that big”. Well my friend, this is only the very tip of the titty-iceberg. They extend at least another 4 inches to the side, sit under my armpit, prevent me from amply resting my arms by my side and extend down by at least half a foot.

When You Gotta Go….

The summer of 2004 was one of those extremely hot and humid summers I’ll probably boast about to my Grandchildren: “I remember the summer of 2004…”  I’ll reminisce, with a cock-eyed smile on my wrinkly face. “I bought the coolest lilac fan from Stoke Newington High Street. Ooh…it were hot”. 

But I doubt I’ll tell them the real reason I remember that summer….

On a particularly humid Monday in July, I was in a transit van approaching the Blackwall Tunnel in East London.

I was accompanied by a bassist and a saxophone player after an afternoon jazz gig at the Royal Opera House. We had enjoyed a nice lunch - avocado salad and spicy wedges - following our two hour set. And we were feeling pretty smug; a Monday lunchtime gig is a rare thing for the humble jazz musician.

As we entered the Blackwall Tunnel, the traffic predictably ground to a halt. And as the traffic predictably ground to that painful halt, my stomach started churning and a bead of perspiration trickled down my sticky forehead. I let out a sneaky fart hoping it would be all that was required for immediate relief. As a torrent of trumps started escaping my booty - each hotter and wetter than it’s predecessor - I realised I was wrong and became aware of a real risk: should I continue fart, would I follow through? 

“I really need the loo”, I said to Pete.

“It looks like we’re going to be here for a while”, was his unsatisfactory reply.

“Can’t we try and pull over somewhere?” I pleaded.

“Where?” he queried. “We’re practically in the tunnel”. 

“Ok…. I’ll try and hold it in. But as soon as we’re out, I have to go to the loo”. 

I lent forward a little, hoping my stomach pain would ease but after another 30 minutes of standstill traffic, my stomach had bloated to twice it’s usual size. 

“I think I’m going to shit myself!”  

 “What?” Pete asked, in shock.

Pete and I had only been boyfriend and girlfriend for a month or so. David - his best mate and saxophonist - was chuckling away quietly. It doesn’t take men long to realise that although I look angelic, I do actually fart and shit like the rest of them. 

“Why don’t you go in my lunchbox?” David helpfully suggested, taking his sandwiches out and passing it to me. It was a pretty thing; his childhood lunchbox, as he had informed me at a previous gig. I didn’t WANT to shit in it, but I couldn’t refuse his kind offer.

“I’m going to have to!” I replied. “I can’t wait. I feel ill. We could be here for hours right?”

 “You’re not going to go in front of us are you?” asked Pete. 

“Only if it turns you on!” I replied; the joke wasted on Pete who by now was wondering what the hell he saw in me.

“Don’t worry. I’ll go in the back”.

I got out of the van, opened the rear sliding door and went inside. It was pitch black, had no windows and I had to navigate over and amongst Pete’s vast amount of PA equipment. 

“Tell me if you start moving!” I yelled. “I don’t want to shit on your gear!”

I did my business, all the while worrying about the lunchbox; is it big enough? Oh fuck, it’s almost at the brim… God, this stinks… what will they think of me? etc etc… But in the end, I felt quite proud of my watery brown mush. It only JUST fit. I put the lid on, wrapped the box in several plastic bags, clambered out of the van and climbed back into the front. 

“I feel so much better. Thank God for that!” I said with a smile on my sweaty face.

“Well it fucking stinks”, chorused Dave and Pete simultaneously. 

 “I’m sorry. When you have to go, you have to go” I replied.

It was at this point that the gridlock finally lifted and we steadily made our way to Pete’s place in North London. 

When we got out of the van I took the lunch box over to Pete’s bin. 

“You aren’t throwing it away?” David asked and ran over to grab the lunchbox off me. 

 “Do you really think you could wash this and put food in it again?” I replied. 

 ”Er…. yes” said David, in an obvious way; as though I was a complete dunce for suggesting such a thing.

“Do you think that’s normal Pete?” I asked. 

“Well, it is over 12 years old”, he replied.

I passed the lunchbox to David, shit included. If he wanted it, he could empty and wash it himself.

A few months later I was at a gig with David. When it was lunchtime, he took his apple and sandwich out of the pretty childhood lunchbox. “The dirty bastard”, I thought.