"Dear God in Heaven, Robin, why in the name of retail, are you slumming it at H&M, the Institute of Schmattas?" "How dare you," she said, looking for something to hit me with, like a mannequin arm. "I love H&M." At this point, I introduced them to my beautiful daughter-in-law, who was just standing there, hangers draped over her arm, looking lovely. The gals oo'd and awed over her stupendous preggers aura. Then Robin turned to me. "Does she know the story?" "What story?" Here she leaned in, as if sharing intel on that virus thing. "You know, the 'Better you than me' story?"
"Chlo-Chlo, have I told you the OB waiting room story?" Just between us, I'm at that delightful stage where I can't remember kaka, especially stories I may or may not have shared, and fear that the person I'm subjecting the story to is just nodding politely, thinking, "Holy crap, here comes that eff'n story again, do I say something or grin and bear it?" "Yes," Chlo said, "you have," she said, smiling Frenchly.
Well, guess what? I'm going to share it with you nice people again. Here it is, first posted in 2010, but written years earlier and a bit differently, before I named myself SJG, for my never-published memoir, "I Feel Bad About My Butt."
If you’ve ever been in a crowded waiting room full of bloated and unhappy women, and by bloated and unhappy I mean nine-months pregnant, you know how vicious it can get. There’s never been a more miserable or competitive group in history. Pregnant women compare belly size, varicose veins, weight gain, intestinal gas and due dates. One of the pivotal moments of my life occurred toward the end of my first pregnancy. There I was in a crowded room in Tarzana, surrounded by fellow beached whales. I had spent nearly nine months sick and suffering. Enough already. The end was near. I had maybe two weeks to go. As I sat there, waiting for them to call my name, a young woman stopped in front of me. She carried her newborn in a comfy little carrier. The baby was nice and pink and cooked to perfection.
The woman had every reason to kvell. At first, she said nothing to me. She just stared at my bulging belly with disdain. And then, out it came: “Better you than me,” she huffed in a New York accent. I looked at her and thought, "What's with the hostility? Don't you want to pat me on the keppy and tell me it'll be okay?" No. She wanted to lord her victory over me. She wanted to gloat. She wanted me to endure the same torture she had. Then her Brooklyn-bred mother echoed the daughter’s sentiment, only it came out even more New Yorky and nastier. “Better her than you,” she said, nasally, to her daughter. “I heard you the first time,” I said.
Well, I've been milking this moment since the eldest was born. I've relived it, reenacted it, taken it to Broadway (in my dreams.) The New York accents, the inherent hostility, have fermented with age, like a fine Bordeaux. So listen to your SJG. The next time you want to feel superior over someone else -- and what could be more fun than that? -- remember that "better you than me" works for just about any occasion. I offer it to you now, free of charge, unless you're inclined to reimburse me, or send a substantial gift card my way. It's entirely up to you, depending how well you live with the guilt. Use it when you're down. Use it when you're up. Say it with feeling. Say it with pride. Say it today:
BETTER YOU THAN ME!
There. Don't you feel good about yourself?
No comments:
Post a Comment