Designated Crying Section

I realized something important today: There are “Smoking Areas” and “Smoke Free Zones” but there aren’t any “Designated Crying Sections”. We should really look into that.

This morning, I had an incident that I haven’t had since the fifth grade. I was at my day job sitting at my desk when suddenly, I felt like I had “leakage”. My period has been heavier than usual this month (not sure if the recent failed IVF has anything to do with this) and despite wearing a maxi pad as big as my Brooklyn apartment, I couldn’t help but fear that an accident had occurred.

I ran to the bathroom and there was blood everywhere. Well, everywhere but the damn maxi pad. It was like Aunt Flo decided she’d have enough of ‘Always with Wings’ and she wanted to travel. So she bled all over my new adorable pink cotton underwear and down my thighs. Oh that Aunt Flo… what a bitch.

I sat there for a second trying to figure out my options. “Let’s see, I have soaked underwear, a maxi pad, toilet paper, bobby pins in my hair and pearl earrings. What would MacGyver do?”

I decided to make a dash back to my desk and see if I had extra underwear lying around. Thanks to the days when I used to go to the gym (those days are gone but not forgotten…) it wouldn’t be unusual that I would have extra underwear, socks and sneakers in my desk somewhere. I figured if I didn’t have underwear, I at least could get creative with the socks. Mercifully though, I found some clean underwear in my now dusty gym back and thankfully, no blood made its way on to my outfit. Phew!

Something about this incident took the fact that I’m still not pregnant and put it in bold red typeface. What’s KILLING me is truly, everywhere I go, I feel like I’m reminded how very NOT pregnant I am. I walked through the lobby of my day job, and there were women pushing strollers, Mother’s Day merchandise in the window of every store and I have seen more pregnant women than there are at a Mormon polygamous compound.

My visiting mother-in-law talks about her grandson and the impending birth of her granddaughter incessantly, I’m surrounded by pregnant women at work who swap stories of baby kicks, breast pain and cravings, and ninety-two percent of stories people tell me have to do with their kids, or having a family or something relative to all of the above. I’ve never been one to be paranoid but I’m beginning to suspect a meeting was held where some enthusiastic and sadistic leader called everyone into a room and said, “You hear Jay isn’t pregnant? I say we have fun with it! Who’s with me? C’mon! It’ll be fun!”

On my lunch break, I was overcome by the need to cry. I don’t even know why but I felt that a good, healthy cry was in order. The trouble is I had no idea where to go for privacy. I walked outside to the nearby park and tried to find a secluded bench. As soon as I sat down though, my eyes locked on to the baby play group stretched out and playing on the lawn directly in front of me. I got up and moved to another remote bench, only to have a nanny and a stroller filled with twins sit next to me. I got up again and just began wandering and thinking very rationally, “Hmmmm, now where can I go to cry? Where to go…” You would have thought I had this tearful appointment written in on my day planner:

12:30pm: Meet with emotions.

For one second, I actually considered going to what we call “The Milking Room” at work. It’s where new mothers can go to pump their breast milk. I immediately shot this idea down though. I wanted to have a little cry; not a have a complete nervous breakdown.

Then, I remembered there was a church near by. I haven’t been to church in ages as god appears to have broken up with me, but I knew it was quiet and that you could possibly find a little corner, a “crying vestibule” if you will, to have a moment. When I walked in however, it was crowded. If I had to guess, it looked like half were there to worship the lord and the other half were there for the same reason as me. Any which way, the only seat I could find was, of course, next to a huge ornate statue of Mary holding a baby Jesus. Perfect. She didn’t even have sex and managed to get pregnant. Jesus Christ indeed.

After sitting there for only a few minutes debating my next move, I decided to just give up altogether, get a bagel and go back to work.

It’s a sad day when an emotional, hormonal, menstrual woman can’t find a decent place to cry in New York City.