At this point she’s already dropped and head down. I have Braxton Hicks every day. Now I have to go to the doctor every week. My cervix is 50% open and I’m 1/2 centimeter dilated. My doctor said it could be any time or a couple weeks which to me literally means nothing. Active labor doesn’t start until 3 centimeters and I’m not having any ‘real’ contractions yet.
Baby is coming. When I don’t know but within the next month. I have yet to pack my hospital bag and unpack my stuff in our ‘apartment’. I’m still working and my doctor hasn’t taken me out of work. I tried to ask for a note to go on unpaid maternity leave and I got nowhere — makes me wonder if I need it? I’m still going to the gym and using ‘boring’ cardio machines. I actually joined a new one Sunday that is across the road where I live and isn’t going to charge me through the roof. It only sucks she won’t be able to go with me until she’s 2.
And I’m getting sick of the ‘you’ll be too tired’ to anything after she’s born comments. While that may be true, I don’t need nor want to hear it. AND the labor stories. OKAY because YOUR water broke in the hospital doesn’t mean my will. Or because YOU carried your first for 42 weeks, doesn’t mean I will! Everyone is different!
she said in the last conversation I had with her before she passed. She didn’t tell me whether or not I should filter the truth. Should I fictionize it completely to protect my ass? Obviously I need to change names but also the workplace? But he never made us sign a form stating we can’t share information about what goes on nor our experiences. Even if he did, do you know how many malls there are in the world? You can’t prove it’s yours.
Of course I wrote a 50 page draft in a fictional restaurant and characters that didn’t feel real. I lost interest in it and haven’t seen it in about 2 years now. The only writing I’ve done has been on my blog. For a while I thought it was to get revenge on an ex supervisor that treated us like shit or to expose how fucked I am — but it wasn’t. It was to expose what really happened behind the scenes. Something anyone can relate too whether they work some shitty minimum wage job, decent, or fancy one.
Sex in the workplace, workers that go off for hours during their shift no one notices, drug dealing, smoking marijuana or doing other drugs at work, drinking, etc.
So what happened to that story? It didn’t have a plot. People kept doing shit for no reason at all. How many times can you watch a character fuck up and get annoyed over the same repetive shit? Probably until the end he finally gets arrested for a DWI. Then it gets boring and life goes on. His love interest ends up pregnant by her husband. It sounds more like some lifetime shit and less like the interesting SCI FI stories I had old men operating on someone’s brain.
So I’m left with the question, what is a story worth telling?
It was fun, alright. I didn’t get any actual jobs doing it because I did it in college. I did it when I transferred to a university junior year. I joined the Dance club. They didn’t have any actual teams or anything. But trust me it felt like it was and a competition at times. Though it was fun for the most part. I did contemporary, jazz, hip-hop, and Bollywood. At the end of the semester we had a recital. Everyone went nuts and loved what we did. The practice was worth it. I didn’t regret that time.
My second year at university as a senior, I had a few elective voids to fill. I picked studio dance training classes in Ballet and Jazz because I thought it would be fun. Well, it wasn’t. It in fact killed whatever passion and love I had for dancing. At the end of the day, I still went to Dance. I screwed up some of the routines. And some of the girls were just rude and nasty. A choreographer joked about cutting our feet off and sending them home. She also happened to be one of my classmates and someone I had to pretend to be civil with though I couldn’t stand her. I avoided her for the most part. I thought of her as a five year old with really bad OCD and ADD. But well, anyway… I still danced on and performed in that semester recital with no issue. The last semester I thought I’d take it upon myself to become a choreographer for a contemporary dance piece to a Lady Gaga song. Half of my people that signed up dropped out because they thought the song was inappropriate. Then wanted to start shit on social media because I didn’t take into consideration everyone’s sizes on the costumes though I did. I was up for hours looking at shit. But I was still ‘body shaming’ by suggesting one of the girls order the same costume by another company because they didn’t have her size. I called that bullshit. But of course, I had to carry the fake face and persona and keep my opinions to myself — and I did. I just dropped my dance all together. Stayed in the few routines I committed too. But I never had any friends from there and made more enemies than I should have. I was the quiet girl that kept to myself.
Now it’s been a couple of years. I don’t have access to a dance studio. If I did I would remember the times I had to stare at myself in the mirror 6 hours every other day while juggling 18 credits and a part time job. I would remember all the shit that was said to me. All the people that followed me around and stared at me. The energy on stage and the paranoia of fucking it up. It was fun once… when it was simple. Back in the days I danced around the fire before I made the conscious decision to go back to school.
I could say hello but I’m not interested in small talk
seeing your number makes me want to vomit
seeing your face makes me want to bash it in a million pieces
I could explain why I stopped talking to you out of the blue
but I refuse to be interrogated for something I didn’t do
I could rant on and on about the things you said and did
that no other man, a stable respectful man would do
you want to say it’s part of your culture or religion
if that were true, you give your people a bad name
You don’t listen or take a clue
I told you numerous times
you and I would never work out
I don’t like high heels
I don’t want your hands around my neck
I don’t appreciate the comments about
you having a threesome with my younger sister and I
I would never convert to Islam
or make an effort to learn your language
you forced high heels on my feet like I was
Cinderella and you were Prince Charming
you choked me and slapped my face
you showed me a knife and made a joke
about taking my life
I saw less and less of you
you began to stalk my younger sister and
her friends on Facebook
I told you that was the last straw
I told you I didn’t like you as much as you liked me
you proceeded to ask me out
I walked away without answering your requests to see you again
or answering your question, “Do you have someone else?”
I responded, “None of your business.”