Panic at the Disco... err, Olive Garden

So after my midwife appointment, I took myself to lunch at the Olive Garden. Not always a great idea, because that soup and salad special makes service insanely slow. And Olive Gardens certainly don't seem to train their servers on the little things that make dining alone irritating, like slow checks, empty water glasses, and moving my book. But all that aside...

John Adams and I waddled into a 4 top table in the corner of an almost full dining room at about 12:30 today. When the server finally made it over, I ordered myself a raspberry lemonade and said, "Can I just order?" I had known what I wanted since the morning. Eggplant Parmesan. Ordered, denied any desire for an appetizer, and settled into my book just as John Adams was departing from France to try and obtain a loan from Holland for the American cause.

Adams was heading through the French countryside towards the Neatherlands, in the midst of what was one of the most prosperous summers of French history. His two sons were writing cute things about Mons and the fields through which they traveled. An old man nearby (in Olive Garden) was complaining that neither candidate would do anything for them. And I was cramping up like a mutha.

I shifted a bit in my chair. My very narrow, uncomfortable Olive Garden arm chair. Salad arrived. I couldn't quite get the hang of eating, because in order to get my head over my plate, I had to lean over my gigantic belly. In order to leverage the belly forward to make room to lean, I'd have to spread my legs. (one of the most awkward things about late pregnancy is sitting basically on your OWN lap) And in order to spread my legs, I'd have to perch on the end of my chair, taking up an additional 2 feet of room that wasn't really there in the over-seated section.

I pushed the table about a foot and a half forward and scooted myself back, a little more comfortably. Now able to reach my food (thank God it wasn't soup), I wasn't driving myself further down Crampy Road by burrowing my abdomen into my nether regions. Crisis averted.

The Eggplant Parm arrives. Looks beautiful. Also arriving are 4 men with a combined age of about 900, and they settle loudly and cheerfully into the table right behind me. I shift my entire table another foot forward, making the 8 year old in the table's direct path look around nervously, like he's living in the path of a magma flow. I continue to cramp, thinking "hey, this old wives tale about eggplant parm is rubbish... I haven't even eaten it yet." I eat, enjoy, and start to sweat a little bit. How I'd really like to be eating this is sitting on my yoga ball, in front of our TV, with my leg spread open in a squat wider than a barn door. THAT would feel good... but even at the edge of the stupid armed chair, I can't get comfortable. Squirming doesn't help, and also makes me feel conspicuous - which I already do, as the old men would obviously not approve of the young wipper-snappers form of dress - old people tend to hate the "show your belly" style of today. And then the white tank top screams "Spill marinara sauce on me!" and I bend over my belly and plate, trying to shovel food into my mouth while avoiding the suggestion, and cramp cramp cramp owwww...

Amber my server asks pleasantly if everything tastes okay (never ask that - it suggests something should not taste right. say "taste good?" instead.) and I smile crankily and ask for a box. By the time the box arrives, I've finished all but about 4 bites and a breadstick of the meal. She offers to run and get another smaller box, but I cut her off and say, "I think I might be going into early labor... I need to just go." She smiles as if she didn't really hear what I said but assumes it was something nice, and then you see it hit her - poor Amber's eyes go sort of wild for a moment, and she stammers, "Uhhh, I'll be right back with your check..."

Early labor or not, it won me my check fast and an extra handful of those tasty chocolate mints. Upon reaching home and laying down for a pasta-induced nap, things calmed down quite a bit... I think just being able to move around properly without hitting the table full of Methuselahs was enough to bring things back from the brink of discomfort.

Now I understand why Saby suggested putting me on house arrest :-) I can't walk around and do squats in my underwear at Olive Garden!!! What a sensible fellow my dear husband is. That, my friends, is why God made take out.