A Box of Hammers

Why on earth do otherwise intelligent, caring, socially competent, compassionate people insist on telling me about K.'s progress or lack thereof towards the birth of her baby? And these are people who knew I was pregnant and due the day before she was, who knew we were so excited to be sharing our pregnancies, who knew about the miscarriage, people who goddamn should have known better.

I do care about K., and I will be really really happy for her when her baby is born. But I will also be really really miserable for me. And those emotions are too complex to try and express at work, so I wish I could just avoid the whole subject here. Unfortunately, I don't run the world ('cause, duh, if I did, we'd all have babies!) and I can't seem to avoid these horrid interactions. These people are my coworkers and I don't want to be branded around the school as the misanthropic psychopath I sometimes feel like. So I nod and try not to grimace, and escape the conversations as quickly as possible. However, here are some things I'd rather say:

• Oh really? I haven't had my baby yet either.
• Excuse me, I have real work to do.
• Hello?!? Do you have a single living brain cell? Do you know that you are plunging a knife in my gut at this moment?
• You mean all pregnancies don't end in miscarriage?
• Is K. having a baby? I didn't know.
• Get out of my face.
• If you're willing to pay for my therapist, we can continue this conversation.

And now that I've vented, it's time to go back to work. Oh joy.