My second pregnancy has featured public transport commuting more heavily compared to my first time around, where I was walking almost daily to get to work. I’ve become increasingly frustrated with the general lack of awareness of fellow commuters toward my “condition”, even though there are plenty of signs on the metro, buses and commuter trains that prominently feature pregnant women as priority passengers.
In order to counter this growing lack of awareness, compassion or just plain civility, I have started to unapologetically, shamelessly and overtly demand the seat that is rightfully mine (disclaimer: based on expectations of able-bodied people. I see an older person or someone with limited mobility, my needs quickly get demoted. Just to clear the record; haters love to jump to conclusions).
I have considered just asking loudly “could someone please give up their seat for me” but most people have headphones on during their commute so, literally, your request will fall on deaf ears. Also, I am prone to profanities, and I fear I may end up in jail if I decide to start yelling.
Here is my battle plan for claiming what’s mine on public transport. If it works for me, chances are it might work for you, too.
Step 1: Attitude is everything. Sometimes, though, you’re just not in the mood for whooping ass and you need a little encouragement. It takes energy, which is something we all know is in short supply as your pregnancy progresses. A good playlist is KEY. Whether it’s Metallica, Cardi B, Celia Cruz, Beyoncé, 90s boy bands (no judgement here), or my recent favorite, a hard-hitting playlist of 90’s gangsta rap, listen to what helps you get your head in the game. Hit play and let your music of choice build that fabulous pregnant lady swagger up until you can step onto that platform or bus stop like you own the damn place. Personal favorite for morning rush hour: Lil’ Kim’s “Big Momma Thang”. Perfection. (Bodak Yellow by Cardi B was on heavy rotation for a while. “These is bloody shoes”? Uhm, YES).
Step 2: While waiting for your ride, start rubbing your beautiful bump. Assert your dominance over other commuters by staring them dead in the eye as you stroke your belly. Yeah, that’s right, people: I’m pregnant and you WILL let me board first. I am your Queen for the rest of your morning commute today. Fear me and respect me. Then, for added confusion, smile. BOOM.
Step 3: The transport vehicle pulls up. The anticipation has reached its zenith. Doors open. Will there be any seats open? If so, will your newly acquired entourage bow down in deference and let you have dibs on them? That’s a beautiful scenario, when it happens. No bloodshed, your dominance is absolute and there is hope for humanity after all. Sadly, in my experience that has not been the case, most days. Usually there are always a fool or two who ain’t at all “woke”. So I sigh and think to myself: this is what you’ve been training for. Assess your surroundings and get ready for the next step.
Interlude to Step 4: If you’re here, well, some bird for brains is about to get what’s coming. Before you go in for the kill, here’s what you need to remember: it is your RIGHT to demand a seat for your beauticious expecting derrière. It really is. Don’t let anyone else forget that, either.
Step 4: Ooooh, someone pray for these people’s souls. Shoulders rolled back, head held high, pop your preggo belly and boobies out and start making direct eye contact with all the unfortunate fools that are occupying your royal throne. This takes a little practice, but don’t worry, you’ll get the hang of it. Scan these people’s retinas like you’re the damn CIA and if you have natural resting bitch face, like yours truly here, let it work its magic for you. If not, practice your mean mug at home. If belligerence isn’t in your DNA, flash your most seductive smile. As in, you’re on the Oscars red carpet with Channing Tatum on your arm type of smile. But eye contact is CRUCIAL. Make them squirm with your divine pregnant aura. Usually by this point someone is embarrassed enough to accept defeat and give up their seat for you. Thank said victim profusely as they retreat with their tail between their legs. Make them feel good about their sacrifice. Like it was their idea and not your ruthless tenacity that made them do the right thing.
Step 5: Holy Batman balls, some people just can’t take a hint. Girl, it’s time to drop your gloves (hockey term: all bets are off. Go get yours). If you made it to this point, I pity the fool. I have, even as I unleashed a scorched-earth campaign upon these people. The equal playing field is out the window here. You are going to have to pick one specific prey and zero in on them. It’s not fair, but neither is the fact that you, pregnant goddess, are still standing, probably overheating no matter what you are wearing, and people suck. Single out the person most vulnerable to physical intimidation. It’s jungle rules now. Trust your instincts. Step up to them, so that your bump is all in their face, turning it from a beautiful, sweet baby haven into a weapon of irresistible but devastating destruction. Trust me, if your designated prey has not taken the hint yet, someone else will have. There is only so much tension people are willing to tolerate, so make sure your “zero fucks” filter is ON.
Step 6: As you get comfortable in your throne, you may now switch from death music to your country coffeehouse playlist, or that one mindful meditation podcast you’ve been meaning to check out for a while.
Just make sure you don’t miss your stop.
Go forth and dominate, pregnant queen. The world is ours. Until around 40 weeks. Then we’re all back to plebeian status as the newborn dictates every pee break and power nap.
