Never Mind The Centuries of Child-Bearing Women Who Have Walked Everywhere
Last Saturday, I worked. When it was slow, my co-worker, let’s call her Helene, asks me, “So, do you walk home after you’re done with work?” An understandable question, as I’m sure it’s odd, for a manager, to stand at the glass-front entrance after checking my bag to make sure I haven’t stolen anything–a standard security measure– and not see me get into a car like all the other employees.
I answered the affirmative, to which she asked, “Where do you live?”
I pointed in the general direction of my apartment complex and told her, “It’s just over there. It’s so close that even if I could drive, I’d probably still walk.”
She shrugged and said, “Actually, I’d probably still drive;” I shrugged back at her, and looked at me like she was concerned for my health, mentally and physically.
Yesterday, I took the bus out to a branch of the dollar store I worked at last year to pick up a over-the-door hook to match one we have already. While I was at it, I walked across the street to a discount store and bought a few button-up maternity shirts. Then, I took the bus back to work to try on a few of our dresses that were on sale.
All my co-workers saw me walk in with purchases in hand, and I told Helene conversationally what errands I’d been on previously. While I was scouring the dress rack, Helene stood nearby, consolidating stock. She said something to me, but I couldn’t hear her. I asked her to repeat it, and she did, at the exact same tone. I moved to a conversational distance and asked her to repeat it once more. She told me something to the extent of, “Because you walk around so much, you’ll deliver two weeks early.”
I just threw up my hands, shrugged at her, and told her, “Well, if I could help it, I would.” Inside, I was flabbergasted.