“Why did you tell me then?” he asked.
“Just my helpful nature I guess.”
“I think it’s because you care about me. Can’t you just give me another chance?”
“No. I’m really not interested,” I said.
“Will you think about it?”
“No.”
“Will you reconsider?” This was becoming worse than a telemarketing call.
“Reconsidering it is a lot like thinking about it or giving you another chance, Quinton. My answer is still no.”
“I can’t believe this. We had such a good time.”
“I’m going to the gym now. Bye, Quinton.”
Holy shit he was dense! Even I didn’t think I was worth the level of humiliation he’d just put himself through.
* * *
I wore everything I owned for the ride with Danny the next morning. Even though we were well into January, it was the first real Florida cold spell of the season. In Florida, this means the temperature drops below thirty degrees in the morning and only goes up to sixty-five during the day. When this happens, the weather channel takes a break from predicting next year’s hurricane season in order to provide minute-by-minute details on the chance of survival for each Florida orange against the deep freeze. I have bad circulation in my hands and feet, so if it dips below forty-five degrees, I wear three sets of gloves, wool socks, toe warmers and two sets of shoe covers called “booties.” I also wore a thermal snow cap instead of a helmet. When given the choice between dying and being cold, I’d chose being cold every time. However, my winter wardrobe never reflected this choice.”
Danny looked me up and down and said, “You’re going to lose your mime hands if you wear gloves and long sleeves.”
One of the negatives about cycling in Florida is the sun. It is inevitable that Florida cyclists will have horrible tan lines. When I ride, I wear a cycling uniform, referred to as a “kit,” which is essentially a short-sleeve jersey and spandex shorts with a padded chamois covering the crotch. The rest of my get-up consists of ankle socks, gloves, a helmet and glasses. I look ridiculous naked. My legs from mid-thigh to ankles, as well as my arms from biceps to wrists, are practically black, while my ass, stomach and back are white as snow. I have a tan line midway across my forehead and around my eyes, where my helmet and glasses rest. The best part about the tan is the hands. I wear gloves when I ride so that I can grip the gears and brakes while sweating my ass off. My hands are white up to my wrist, where I have a sharp line. It really does look like I’m wearing white mime gloves at all times.
“Winter’s almost over, the tan lines will be back with a vengeance soon enough.”
“Is that all you’re wearing?” Danny asked with a hint of sarcasm.
In addition to the gloves and booties, I wore three long-sleeve shirts, a vest and leg warmers. Danny wore shorts and a long-sleeve cycling jersey. After making fun of me, he froze the entire ride. I laughed at him, so he got in front of me and shot a snot rocket right into my face. It was cold, so he had a lot of snot saved up.
“Asshole!” I screamed.
“Sorry,” he said, as he swished water in his mouth then spit it into my face. “That should clean off the snot.”
“Do you have to be such a gentleman all the time?” I asked, wiping the snot and spit off my face.
The morning ride on Davis Island was always beautiful and today was no exception. We saw the sunrise as we pedaled past the yacht club like clockwork on our first of five loops around the east side of the Island. On the second, we passed crew boats training in the channel between Davis Island and Harbour Island. On the third, we saw dolphins playing near the yacht club. The fourth lap also took my breath away. A little boy kissed his mother goodbye, hopped on his bike without a care in the world and pedaled directly into a curb. This sent him sailing four feet into the air until he collided with the post of a stop sign. We paused for a moment, feeling both sympathy and regret that we didn’t capture it for YouTube. Then, we started pedaling again because there wasn’t any blood and his mom seemed to have it under control. Our luck broke on the fifth trip around the Island. Instead of sunrises, boats, dolphins and clumsy kids, we were treated to a crap-load of dirt in our eyes and mouths.
I moved my glasses to rub my eyes and said, “The person who invented the leaf-blower should be shot.”
“No shit,” Danny said. “It is literally designed to transport debris from your yard onto your neighbor’s property.”
“Fuck their property, my eyes are burning and I’m crunching on dirt.”
Danny sprayed his water bottle into my face.
“Jackass. It’s freezing out here.”
“My bad, I was just trying to fix your eyes. You have snot, spit, dirt and leaves in there; I thought you couldn’t possibly see without me spraying stuff into your face.”
“Of course you were,” I said, as I unscrewed the bottle top of mine and splashed my entire water bottle, which was now freezing cold, over Danny’s head.
“I guess I had that coming,” he stated nonchalantly. “Hey, how’s the pregnancy thing going?” Danny asked, hopefully calling it even and ending the water fight.
“Great,” I said. “I plan to go from plump to fat soon and start wearing real maternity clothes.”
“Do you have any?”
“My friend Jessica just had a baby. I’m going to ask to borrow hers.”
“What are you going to tell her?”
“The truth. I’ve known her since sixth grade, she won’t turn me in.”
“You’ll never make it the full nine months, too many people know. You’re going to get busted.”
“I’ll be fine,” I said, with a confidence I didn’t have.
“What if Jessica gets mad that you’re abusing the system and turns you in?”
“Why would she do that? It’s not like I’m faking being handicapped. She had maternity leave and got a little cherub of a baby boy out of it. She’s as happy as a pig in shit. I’m not taking anything away from that.”
* * *
I met up with Jessica at the Westshore Mall, halfway between her house and my office. She was already at the restaurant when I got there and was easy to spot because she had a stroller obstructing all of the foot traffic in the restaurant. I eyed Jessica to see how close we were in size since I’d be wearing her clothes for the next four months. Not surprisingly, nothing had changed since middle school. She was still six inches taller than me. Wearing her clothes, I’d be pulling up my pants and walking on them for the next four months. Jessica looked tired. Poor sucker was using her maternity leave to care for an infant at all hours of the day.
She spent the lunch squeezing her son’s chubby legs and arms like a stress ball with one hand and picking at her salad with the other. She found my pregnancy scheme funny, but crazy.
“So, basically you’re faking a pregnancy for vacation?”
“No. I’ll enjoy the break, but I’m doing it so that I can qualify and compete in this three-week race.”
“Why do you like cycling so much? It seems so boring.”
“Says the girl who has the attention span for yoga.”
Jessica said, “I love yoga, you should try it. You’d probably like it.”
“Can you win at yoga?”
“No.”
“Then why would I do it?” I asked.
“Forget yoga. Why cycling? Do you get a runner’s high, or cyclists’ high or something when you win?”
“Sometimes. I sometimes even get it when I just go out to ride for fun. But it’s not that. It’s hard to describe. Sometimes, I just ride my bike, enjoying the weather and socializing. When I run errands on my bike or ride to work, I feel like a kid with a mission instead of a cyclist. In the summer, I play meteorologist while I ride during the afternoon thundershowers. I look at the sky and try to ride around the massive afternoon storm that’s going to hit the entire Tampa Bay area at some point. Sometimes it works and the storm clouds never catc
h me, though they’re nipping at my back wheel the entire ride. Other times, I get hit right in the thick of it and I’m riding for my life trying to avoid lightning by crouching as low on my bike as possible. I love racing too, and group rides. Any competition really. But I also love training and just spinning around easy.”
“Hello!” Jessica said as she waved her hands in my face.
“Sorry. John and Jason always tell me not to talk about cycling because it bores the shit out of people, but you asked.”
“First, it was kind of a sarcastic or rhetorical question. I didn’t know whether the runner’s high was real or that cyclists got one too. Second, John and Jason are right. Third, who are you and what have you done with Jenna Rosen?”
“What?” I said, now embarrassed.
“Sorry, I’m just not used to you talking passionately and spewing rainbows out of your ass,” she said, cupping her infant’s ears even though he was six months away from talking.
“I wouldn’t go that far.”
“Well it was definitely out of character. Don’t take this the wrong way, but it almost seems like you give a shit,” said Jessica earnestly.
“I do. In fact, I not only give a shit, I care, as I do about everything that affects me.”
“I know that deep down, you care about things, but I much prefer to hang out with your dark shallow side. I get my fair share of sentimentality at home with the kid. Quick, say something cynical.”
“Sorry, other than faking the miracle of birth to get vacation time, I’m out.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. What did you do last night?”
“Grabbed a drink in Ybor City.”
“Great, you must have pissed someone off there, so you have to have a story.”
“Oh yeah. A bum asked me for some money and I said, ‘Sure, can you break a hundred dollar bill?’”
“Did you really?”
“No, bums in Ybor scare me, but I thought about doing it,” I said.
“So, have you slept with that tall drink of water who worships you yet?” Jessica asked.
I blushed. My life would be so much simpler if I wanted to sleep with and marry Danny. “No, I’m not sleeping with Danny. We’re just friends.”
“Why?” Jessica asked incredulously. “He’s totally into you.”
“No shit,” I responded.
“So,” Jessica said, then paused for me to think about and accept this brilliant matchmaking thought of hers.
“He’s my friend. I don’t know why I’m not into him. But I’m pretty sure I’m not and don’t want to ruin the friendship.” I changed the subject. “Did you bring the maternity clothes?”
“Yes, they’re in my car.”
We walked over to Jessica’s car, which screamed “baby on board” even though she did not have the actual bumper sticker. Each window on the station wagon had a sun shield. Beside the large bag of clothes in the back seat was a car seat with spit-up stains surrounded by a sea of discarded Cheerios. I grabbed a pair of maternity pants out of the bag. They looked a bit like cycling bibs in that there was a wide elastic band above where the waistline should be. They actually looked pretty comfortable. How delightful it would be to not have to deal with buttons and zippers for a few months. It would be like living in yoga pants.
Chapter Five
In February, I started wearing Jessica’s maternity clothes and putting a small pillow under my shirt. I also bought an “Empathy Belly,” a tool that sex education teachers use to teach kids the perils of teen pregnancy. It looked very realistic, but it was too early for me to be that big. Instead, I strapped a pillow onto my stomach and wore an undershirt over the pillow to be sure no one would see it. Then I put my maternity top over my undershirt. To complete the ensemble, I added a big jacket because I was paranoid that my stomach didn’t look real enough.
After the morning coffee rush, I went into the kitchen for my secret caffeine fix and almost ran straight into Sarah. Fortunately, I stuck my arms out. Otherwise, she would have been treated to a handful of fluffy belly. Sarah said, “Hey!” and reached forward toward my stomach. I grabbed her hands just in time.
“I want to feel your belly.”
“Are you kidding?” I asked.
“No, I want to feel him kick.”
“It’s not a ‘him,’” I said, switching topics.
“It’s a girl?”
“I don’t know. I don’t want to find out. There’s so few real surprises in life.”
“But what will we get you for the baby shower?”
Oh yeah, I forgot about the obligatory office baby shower. “Cash?”
“Yeah right. You should register at Babies ‘R’ Us,” Sarah said, ever helpful.
“Actually, I was thinking of registering at the bike shop and PetSmart.”
“Ha ha,” Sarah said, not laughing. “Target also has good stuff,” she said.
“Target sounds good,” I said, remembering that Target sells beer. I could exchange my baby gifts for about $500 in beer. I pondered whether $500 in beer was excessive as Sarah moved in again. I grabbed her arm.
“Come on, can’t I feel the baby kick?” she said, physically grappling with me to touch my stomach.
“No, it doesn’t kick yet. I think I have a lazy kid,” I said, pushing her hands away with my left arm and blocking my belly with my right.
“Can I feel your stomach?” she asked.
“Do you have a pregnancy fetish or something Sarah?”
“No,” Sarah said, “Everyone likes to feel a pregnant belly.”
“Seriously?” This is going to be a problem.
“Yes, you’ll see. Complete strangers in the mall will come up to you and rub your belly.”
“They better not,” I said.
“Why?”
Did I really need a reason? Probably not, but just in case I responded, “I don’t want anyone touching my belly, I’m ticklish.”
Sarah walked out, so I started to make myself some coffee. David walked in.
“Are you drinking coffee?” David asked.
“Decaf.”
“I think even decaf has a little caffeine in it. You should be careful.”
“I actually think the low birth weight sounds like a more comfortable delivery. I’m also snorting lines of coke to keep the kid really small.” I often say stuff like this to David when he acts concerned, because his concern is always forced and insincere. He states his concern, then tunes me out.
David confirmed his disinterest in my health, and that of my baby’s, by saying, “Well that’s nice Jennifer, did you finish drafting the punies?”
“Punies” is David’s super-cool slang for punitive damages. Punitive damages are only appropriate where a defendant acts with such wanton disregard that he should be punished in addition to paying compensatory damages to a plaintiff. The defendant in our case, which was one of my only non-subrogation files, was, at most, inadvertently negligent. We would be lucky to win our case, let alone obtain punitive damages. Consequently, I was not very enthusiastic about drafting a twenty page brief on the issue. Nevertheless, I think I could do it with a smile if David could just stop calling them punies. Every single day it’s, “How’s the motion for punies going?” Or, “Paragraph four on page seven of the puny motion is great, huh?” It really makes my skin crawl.
“The motion for PUNITIVE damages is almost complete, David. I’ll get it to you before the end of the day.” I said.
“Great, opposing counsel is going to cry when she sees our motion for punies.”
“Right,” I said.
“Hey Jennifer, are you still riding your bike?
“Yes.”
“Your stomach doesn’t get in the way?”
“No David, I sit on my ass.”
“Don’t you lean down?”
“Only when I’m trying to get aero, I’m just spinning around now and not racing.”
“Hey Jenna, what’s with all those drug-addicted cyclists?”
I
hate when people ask me this. “The sport is actually pretty clean now,” I said.
“What about Armstrong and that Mormon with the tainted beef?”
“I think Lance should come clean about not really drinking Michelob Ultra and that Landis is a Mennonite and he was busted for testosterone. Contador had the tainted beef.” While I hated the topic, I loved correcting David.
“Have you ever taken testosterone or steroids?” David asked me, and he seemed serious.
“No, do you want me to pee in a cup for you?” I asked, grabbing a water cup.
David was no longer listening to me. His question was merely a segue to tell me about his steroid use. He said, “I took steroids after my neck surgery. I don’t know if I was stronger, but I was horny as hell. After I wore my wife out, I was ready to bend over the ninety-year-old nurse.”
I was about to throw up again, but fought it back since I was now past the morning sickness trimester. “That’s hot David. Thanks for sharing.”
When I got back to my desk, I had about twenty emails. I was only out for ten minutes, which means that an interoffice chain was being exchanged. Not surprisingly, it was a food-related chain. Every day, someone’s Cracklin’ Oat Bran or chocolate pudding gets stolen, setting off a chain of emails about how ridiculous it is that grown adults in a professional environment resort to stealing food. This particular email chain was a discussion about some unsuspecting new employee who placed a box of Fruit Roll-Ups in the kitchen cabinet, and found them all gone the next day. My file of food-related office emails was so extensive that I’d separated “stolen food” emails from other “theft related” emails. Some of my favorites are:
-To whomever has eaten my half ham & cheese on a croissant sandwich, pretzels, fun size Snickers and Capri Sun, please replace it!
-Dear person who took my lunch marked “Lauren” for the second time this month, I hope you enjoyed it! (What’s the saying? Fool me once…)
-Whomever took my ravioli from the kitchen, I would of shared it if you asked. Would of? Is the contraction for that would’f?
Maternity Leave Page 9