Over the weekend I attend yet another freakin’ baby shower. I say it like this, because I’ve already been to four in the past three weeks and I’m feeling exhausted (and broke). On the plus side, this happens be Baby Gate’s shower, which means that she has been too busy to keep tabs on me lately. (I haven’t had to screen my calls all weekend!)
I go to the shower with my friend Heels. (I call her Heels because of her closet full of Louboutins and the fact that she’s always so well dressed that you’d think she just stepped off the runway at New York Fashion Week. Even when I anticipate her stylish outfits and spend an hour carefully assembling mine, I always end up feeling frumpy next to her.)
Today is no exception. I pick up Heels and she is wearing an adorable polka dot dress that hugs her figure perfectly and shows off just the right amount of cleavage. I look down at my own outfit and feel the inadequacy already starting to seep in. This isn’t helping anything.
“I hate showers,” I tell Heels on the car ride over. “They're like watching fundraisers on public television… boring and awkward. “
Heels looks at me as if I’m from another planet.
“How could you not like showers, with all the cute decorations and games? They’re so much fun!” (Oh the games. Don’t even get me started on the games.) “You just don’t like other people’s showers – you had fun at your own, didn’t you?”
I explain to her that it’s not just other people’s showers - I despised my own as well. I know some women look forward to their showers for months or even years, but I literally had a recurring nightmare about mine. Just the thought of thirty people glaring at me as I open their gifts is enough to give me a nervous breakdown. All the ‘oohing’ and ‘ahhing’, pretending that each gift is even more exciting than the next... I’d rather just buy my own stuff and skip the bad acting.
Of course Heels can’t believe it. She still loves showers, because she hasn’t had one of her own yet. Heels has been wanting to have a baby for quite some time now, but her live-in boyfriend has been dragging his feet. It hasn’t stopped her from buying every designer baby outfit she finds though. (Girl ones of course. Women like her don’t expect boys.)
We get to the shower and place our gifts atop a huge mound of boxes and bows. Heels is having the time of her life cooing over all the adorable baby things while I wait impatiently for Baby Gate to start unwrapping. Finally (two hours later!) she does.
To my relief, there is no bad acting. Baby Gate seems genuinely excited about each and every gift, coming up with new adjectives to describe each one. But just as she is losing it over a package of soothers (“Baby’s first soothers - how exciting!”), a little girl who looks to be about four or five, approaches Heels and sits at her feet. She half-heartedly plays with a doll while frequently looking up at Heels.
Heels smiles at the little girl. “She’s so cute!” she whispers to me.
I nod. Is she staring at Heels’ boobs, I wonder? I study her for another minute. I think she is! Too weird.
After a moment, the little girl puts down her doll and stands up suddenly pointing to Heels’ chest. “I want some!” she shouts at Heels.
Everyone turns and looks. The little girl’s mother chuckles as she grabs her child’s hand to usher her away.
“Those aren’t for you, Honey. Remember, only mommy’s boobies are for food.”
Meals On Heels looks at me horrified and humiliated. I shrug. “Take it as a compliment.”
We leave as soon as we think it won’t seem rude and we laugh our asses off the entire way home.