You're most probably as used to men checking you out on the street as you're used to breathing. It's inevitable. It's like that. Well, of course the further up north you get, the less evident it is, and vice versa. But all in all, it's a part of life. One that as much as we feminists deplore it, it is there and is as likely to change soon as the sun is likely to start setting in the morning. When we get to them actually going further with the checking out part, that's called harassing. And that's a criminal offence. Got it?
So one thing that really amuses me, as I navigate through Brussels town much as a 3-ton flagship in the 7th glorious month of pregnancy, is the way men check me out and then get uncomfortable upon getting to my belly.
It usually goes like this: they look through me, then they look again: "Hmm, ok, nice face, what else is on offer?" They follow down and are greeted by a pair of much attention-deserving boobs that have frankly never been bigger in their life (although it's me who knows this; guys don't. But still, those are some big boobs by any standard). So yeah, the boob-checking part already grows into "Hell yeah, gimme more!". And right below the boobs they crash with the protruding reality of The Belly. The Belly which has finally got to the size of a football, announcing for all the world to see "the state of the union". And that's where guys automatically avert their eyes in this sort of terrified manner that I would spill my drink in the middle of it if I happen to be carrying one just then. It's like they were just told they had sex with their sister. It's like they just realised they ate a KFC bucket-full of baby bunny paws. It's like they just caught themselves fantasising about the priest in church while wanking. That's exactly the reaction they produce, and it's hilarious to observe.
Now, all this ordeal takes only a few seconds to unfold, but if I could be holding a bag of popcorn while navigating the 3-ton flagship through town I wouldn't be needing any additional entertainment.
So one thing that really amuses me, as I navigate through Brussels town much as a 3-ton flagship in the 7th glorious month of pregnancy, is the way men check me out and then get uncomfortable upon getting to my belly.
It usually goes like this: they look through me, then they look again: "Hmm, ok, nice face, what else is on offer?" They follow down and are greeted by a pair of much attention-deserving boobs that have frankly never been bigger in their life (although it's me who knows this; guys don't. But still, those are some big boobs by any standard). So yeah, the boob-checking part already grows into "Hell yeah, gimme more!". And right below the boobs they crash with the protruding reality of The Belly. The Belly which has finally got to the size of a football, announcing for all the world to see "the state of the union". And that's where guys automatically avert their eyes in this sort of terrified manner that I would spill my drink in the middle of it if I happen to be carrying one just then. It's like they were just told they had sex with their sister. It's like they just realised they ate a KFC bucket-full of baby bunny paws. It's like they just caught themselves fantasising about the priest in church while wanking. That's exactly the reaction they produce, and it's hilarious to observe.
Now, all this ordeal takes only a few seconds to unfold, but if I could be holding a bag of popcorn while navigating the 3-ton flagship through town I wouldn't be needing any additional entertainment.