As my own anniversary draws near, I’d like to send a warning out to all men. Not only should you never ever forget an anniversary, always be generous, but above all, think about your gift. I bring this up as memories from a memorable anniversary are again showing their ugly faces.

Picture this, if you will, and you might want to put down that bite of breakfast first. Eight months pregnant and the size of a pickup over-loaded with doughnuts, Popsicles, ham and cheese sandwiches, and every other indulgence I decided I needed for my baby to survive. And along with being grossly pregnant, the rest of my body had naturally decided to go to pot, just as my waistline did. I felt extremely unattractive, especially since that “pregnant glow” was now just sweat dripping off my upper lip.

And my husband, bless him, he is wonderful, whisks me away for a surprise overnight visit to a spa. So not only do I feel self-conscious about the fact that my husband planned a romantic getaway and my stomach’s so big my belly button has inverted itself, but now other people – strangers who are probably used to seeing beautiful and wealthy women — will see me naked. Yuck.

Immediately some little woman grabs me and takes me to a dressing room where I am to strip down and put on a medium sized robe. It looks like I’m smuggling watermelons in my abdomen and she hands me a medium. I easily convinced her to pass me a large instead. Once clad in only a robe and paper slippers not made for swelling feet, I am led to a room with a bunch of women in very similar attire drinking champagne. Now, of all the people in that room who could have used a big glass of bubbly, I was the only one who couldn’t have one. So instead I sat there concentrating on sitting with my legs crossed and keeping my paper slippers together until they called my name for the first, wonderful event.

Down a long hallway I go, into a room with a fine mist, some small plants, and music playing that made me have a taste for Indian food, and the masseuse tells me to de-robe and lay on my stomach. Can you just picture it? Naked pregnant lady suspended by her belly, arms and legs flailing around…it wasn’t going to happen. Then the varicose veins from my lovely child made her jump a little, too. We made it through the session with uncomfortable positions and even more awkward silence.

Once I had survived that, another tiny woman grabbed me and ran me, my large robe, and my paper slippers down to the pedicure room. For those of you who don’t know, pregnant women cannot see their toenails, let alone reach them for any type of painting, filing, or moisturizing. Therefore, the poor pedicure lady had her work cut out for her. For months I had been contorting myself to simply reapply polish to my toes and by the time she saw them, there was probably seventeen coats of five different colors. Yes, I was feeling really attractive. She worked diligently for what seemed like forever and then had the nerve to say “my, my, you have very dry feet.” I wanted to respond, “really? Thanks for letting me know. I haven’t seen them in weeks.”

The good news is that the masseuse and the pedicurist and I will never see each other again, and I think we can all agree that it is indeed good news. And overall, my husband I had a nice anniversary. Looking back, I should have done a lot less worrying about my mushy round body and my feet and should have done a lot more enjoying. I will never see those people again and if nothing else probably provided them with some entertainment.

I can see them all sitting around in their robes and paper slippers, drinking champagne and saying “I had to massage this really big pregnant woman today.”
“That’s nothing. You should have seen her toenails.”


Karrie McAllister