I Can Barely Take Care of Myself

they have time for one more quick alley-strangling before they go to bed at sunrise.

I’d put on my gym clothes around five o’clock at the office so that I could stay in the mind-set of “going to the gym after work.” Well, the gym clothes are on, so it’s not like I’m going to get into my car and just drive by the gym. And every night at six, I’d get in my car wearing workout clothes and… just drive by the gym and head home.

Eventually I got tired of wearing wrap dresses, because every day in the kitchen at work I’d run into someone who would say, “You’re dressed up today! You have big plans tonight?”

“No,” I’d answer. “I just don’t have any pants that fit.”

“Oh, Jen. You’re so funny.”

“No. I’m serious. I’m not going anywhere tonight. I’m going home to stand around and feel my thighs touching.”

I decided that until I lost the weight, I at least had to wear a pair of jeans that fit. I’d seen billboards for a brand of jeans called Not Your Daughter’s Jeans that promised to suck your stomach in up to your neck. Until now, I’d resisted putting something called Not Your Daughter’s Jeans on my body. It’s a wildly insulting name when you think about it. It’s nothing like that Oldsmobile ad campaign from the 1990s: “It’s Not Your Father’s Oldsmobile.” That meant, “Your dad isn’t that cool but you are. We have updated, cool Oldsmobiles for you, you young, hip person.” Not Your Daughter’s Jeans implies, “Oh, your daughter wouldn’t wear these jeans. They’re for older, heavier women. Your daughter is a size zero. She doesn’t put peanut butter on a doughnut and call it a high-protein breakfast. Your daughter doesn’t need to wear a body shaper with sweatpants. Men want to have sex with your daughter and not you.” Not Your Daughter’s Jeans abbreviates their brand to NYDJ in a lot of their ads. I guess they’re hoping people get confused and think, Oooh, NYDJ. That must be the brand of jeans that cool New York disc jockeys wear.

I went to a mall to try to find some Not Your Daughter’s Jeans and one of these young “daughter types” was working the counter. She said to me in that baby voice that’s all the rage nowadays, “Um, no? We don’t have that brand? But why don’t you buy the jeans you used to wear but a few sizes bigger?” Yeah, why don’t I go to Home Depot, buy some rope, and hang myself? I know my options.

I left the mall without the NYDJ jeans, but I treated myself to a frozen yogurt because I felt I’d earned it after walking and standing for thirty minutes in a row.

The people who will tell you the truth in this situation are gay guys and your mom. I don’t really have any gay guys in my life anymore. (I have a theory that gay guys are closer with straight women when they’re both at a period in their lives when they realize that they like penises but aren’t quite sure how to go about interacting with them. Once gay guys come out, it’s just a constant hunt for dick, working out at the gym, and buying dog beds. The straight-girl friend isn’t coming over for any more Friday-night sessions of singing into a hairbrush to En Vogue’s “My Lovin’ [You’re Never Gonna Get It].”)

But it took a gay guy to make me realize that my stomach full of burritos looked like a baby.

I was at a happy hour with a friend. We were standing around chatting when a gay man-friend of hers came running over. It was pretty loud already (we were in a gaycentric restaurant, so it’s always a nightclub no matter what time of day). Natasha introduced me to her friend and said, “This is Jen. She just got married this year!” The oontz-oontz of the bass was too loud for him to hear her correctly, but he could tell that a woman was standing in front of him and another woman was excited for her and there was news. He shrieked in support and you didn’t need a quiet bar to hear the international language of “someone thinks you’re fat.” He put his hand on my stomach and said, “Congratulations! When are you due?” I wanted to go back to my local senior center and undo my vote in support of gay marriage.

MY MOM GETS to see me on television about once a week on Chelsea Lately. She’d been at home reclining in her chair over the past few months and noticing that her daughter Jen’s normally pointy chin was becoming very round. She thought to herself, This is beyond the camera adding ten pounds. I wonder if Jen is pregnant. She’s been married for seven months. She could be.

One day, I was sitting in my Spanx and eating my second bagel of the day in my office, e-mailing with my older sister Violet, who is also a member of the childfree-by-choice club. (She has three cats, a pony, and two horses; she prefers her living, breathing responsibilities to have fur, a shorter life span, and no need for a college education.)

I waddled away from my desk to head to the kitchen for a third bagel and I forgot to lock my computer. I left my Microsoft Outlook open. Chelsea walked into my office and composed an e-mail to my sister.

Violet, I’m pregnant. We didn’t want to have kids. It’s a mistake. I’m not sure if I’m going to keep the baby. I want to talk to Mom about options. But you have to tell her. So call her on my behalf tonight.

Chelsea walked out of my office. I waddled back into my office. The only thing I saw was an e-mail from my boss Sue, telling us we could go home early. I shut down my computer, never checking my sent messages. I stopped by the kitchen to grab a fourth bagel for the ride home. My cell phone started ringing during my commute. It was Violet. I was driving, so I ignored it—I was too busy singing along to Juice Newton’s “Angel of the Morning” in between bagel bites. My sister calls me a lot and usually she doesn’t even want me to pick up, she just wants to narrate The Bachelor into my voice mail. “Jen? It’s Violet. What’s up? Oh my Gawd this girl is such a geek. She’s cryin’ because she didn’t get picked to go on the helicoptah ride.”

I went to bed that night having never called Violet back. In the morning, I listened to her messages.

First message: “Jen, I got your e-mail. What the hell is going on?” I was still waking up and thought, What the hell is going on? What e-mail?

Second message: “Jen, you’re pregnant? You really want me to tell Mom? Let’s at least talk first.”

Third message: “Jen, I called Mom. I couldn’t bring myself to tell her but I did tell her that you have something to tell her. So call her this morning.”

I called Violet and she read me “my” e-mail to her. She believed me when I told her that Chelsea wrote the e-mail, but convincing my mom that nothing was wrong would be another story. I bit the bullet, called my mom, and said, “So, Violet told you I have something to tell you?”

My mom couldn’t stop the panic in her voice: “Jennifah, what is it? Is something wrong in yah marriage?”

“No, Mom. Everything is fine. Listen, Chelsea broke into my computer and e-mailed Violet, telling her I was pregnant.”

The panic in my mom’s voice shot off like a rocket: “Jennifah, you’re pregnant?”

“No. I’m not pregnant. Chelsea was playing a prank.”

“Well, Jennifah, why would she do that if you’re not pregnant?”

“Mom. Do you know what a prank is? You don’t spread truths about someone if you’re pranking them. She was kidding. This conversation that you and I are having now is exactly what Chelsea wanted to have happen.”

My mom’s rocket tumbled back to earth and now her voice was somber. “But you really ah pregnant, aren’t you?”

And she was off and running before I could even get a word in. “You know this is so funny, Jennifah, because I was watching you on TV the othah night and you know I think you’re a beautiful girl but your face is so round. It’s just like a pregnant woman. You look like you-ah filled with water, like a balloon…”

“Mom!”

“Oh, Jennifah, what ah you gonna do?”

So my mom had just done two things that are probably not in any handbook called A Normal Parent’s Reaction to Things. First, she lamented that her married, thirty-five-year-old daughter might be pregnant. Typically moms are laying a guilt trip to convince their thirty-five-year-old married daughters to have children. I’ve always thought that mothers who ask their children to provide them