The factory is silent. Its assembly line stands motionless. Somewhere off in the darkness, a buzzer sounds. One by one, lights begin to flicker and illuminate on long-unmanned diagnostic panels, giving a sense of enormity and complexity and scale to the machinery. The low hum of power supplies warming up comes next, followed by the higher and louder whine of turbines and electric motors. A whistle sounds, and one by one, employees begin to file in and take their places at the controls. Purposed for a single task, whose time has now come, the factory slowly comes to life...
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
My First Peeve
I think I've been a pretty easygoing preggo. I don't care if people touch my stomach. I show everyone my stretch marks. I don't care if you say I look huge, or I don't look huge, or that my ankles look like they've been injured. I don't care if you constantly ask me how I'm feeling, or if I've had that baby yet, or message me once a day at work to see if I'm still around. See? I'm laid back.
I do however mind when people ask me when I'm going to "pop."
I'm not a balloon. This is not air in here. Nor am I a blood-filled tick, or a zit. Yuk. All of those things bring up really unpleasant, Alien-movie connotations for one about to give birth, believe me. I am NOT going to "pop." I am having a baby. I can think of about 30 euphemisms that annoy me way less than "pop."
So please, refrain from making comments that remind me my abdomen looks like Jiffy Pop when you take it off the stove. (No, I will not don a layer of tin foil.)