Highlight of the day: making it until almost 4:27 p.m. without any chocolate, which is a feat of Shakespearean proportions at this stage of pregnancy and fatigue. I am depriving myself today because my glucose test (for gestational diabetes) is tomorrow and I am determined to pass. Admittedly, I originally said I would cut out sweets for the three days preceding the test, but as I approached T minus 3 days, I decided I would rather risk a false positive than live these 72 hours without chocolate. I feel like I am home free now. I plan to be asleep by 8:00 p.m., since I have been up since 5:00 a.m., which, frankly, sucks. I can't blame Sadie because she was asleep until 6:15 a.m., and I can't really blame pregnancy because Jeff was up and wide-eyed himself at 5:30 a.m., and as I love to remind him and everyone else, HE'S NOT PREGNANT, I AM. So, it's just more time change funk. But, here's me on the cusp of passing a test that I failed last pregnancy. If I have to take that disgusting 3-hour glucose test I am running straight to Neiman Marcus to get a consolation prize. It will be cashmere and it will probably be a size XL.
Lowlight of the day: I had to appear at a hearing in state court, which, for reasons too numerous to name, I hate. One of the most unappealing parts of appearing in state court is trying to get an elevator from the first floor to the 23rd floor. Regardless of time of day, the elevators are jammed with cranky, self-important lawyers, whose definition of "business attire" is so incoherent and diffuse that it honestly seems like some of these people are trying to get sanctioned for fashion crimes. (Should you wear 6-inch high heals with feathers on them to court on a weekday morning? State court no less? In the midwest? With a cotton skirt? Come on!) Seriously, this morning there were no less than 35 lawyers waiting over 3 minutes to get into a 6 foot by 3 foot box to take them to EVERY SINGLE FLOOR BETWEEN 1 and 23. Are you kidding me? My baby son will be 5 before I find the courtroom.
Today's elevator ride was particularly suffocating. I got into the elevator first, because I am pregnant and aggressive and happened to be standing by the one elevator that happened to be working during the court's rush hour. I politely stepped in and walked to the back of the elevator. (Those whole 3 feet.) The next thing I know, a gigantic, 6 foot 4 inch, linebacker of a man gets it right in front of me, clutching his monogrammed leather satchel full of legal pads and files, and pushes his very ample backside right up against my bump.
Oh, sorry, did my unborn child take up too much room for you?
I couldn't move. I was literally boxed in by Big Foot and he was talking about his latest forays into horse racing. Our gigantic horse lover lawyer man was so busy talking about the horse racing odds and his winning gamble that he didn't realize he was cutting off my oxygen and close to racking up a charge for attempted feticide. If I hadn't been with a more senior partner, I think the toxic mix of fatigue and crowded personal space may have given me push to tell him to get out of my way, get to a f*cking Gamblers Anonymous meeting, and learn to talk in a hushed elevator voice when you are surrounded by 15 strangers, all of whom are running late.
This is what's so great about third trimester: As the fatigue takes over and the weigh gain accelerates apparently so does my charm and ability to take life's little challenges in stride. If I keep this up, I will be riding those elevators as a defendant and not a defense lawyer.