MsT
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Interesting and funny - see how you like it
As Morrissey famously sang, "Bigmouth strikes again"; one ill-informed insult directed at the female of the species, and before I knew it I was forced to step into their shoes by wearing 'The Bump' pregnancy simulator vest (complete with fake breasts) for what became the longest 24 hours of my life.
My first mistake was foolishly suggesting to my ball and chain... er, I mean my beautiful other half, that taking a direct hit on the family jewels is more painful than childbirth.
It's ridiculous, of course, everyone knows that a flying football in the testicles is by far the more painful of the two. There I go again, sorry, it's the other way around, naturally, and I only said it to get a rise out of my little love bundle, as every man who tries his luck with such a remark is doing. But it's an argument that is as old as it is completely pointless, like the one about the chicken and egg, as neither sex will ever experience the other set of circumstances.
I could, however, as was quickly pointed out to me, learn to appreciate what it's like to be pregnant - particularly the weight gain and changing body shape that occurs during pregnancy - by wearing a so-called 'bump', a weighted vest designed specifically to teach empathy and respect for pregnancy, for 24 hours.
Never slow off the mark to put me in an embarrassing situation, my boss arranged for a bump to be delivered to the office, courtesy of Life Choice Ltd, and it duly arrived in a dubious denim suitcase. 'I'm not going out in that,' I think to myself, before realising that what lies within the suitcase is potentially much more humiliating.
I'm confident that the experiment will pass without much incident or inconvenience to myself. Then I try and lift the thing to put it on for the first time, and my arm is dragged to the floor like a cartoon character dropping an anvil. It's surprising how heavy it is - even at full-term, a baby only weighs about 7lbs, right? Wrong. I've neglected to add the placenta, enlarged breasts (or just breasts in my case) extra fat supplies required for making breast milk, uterine muscle, extra blood, fluid, and amniotic fluid, all of which come together to form a bulky package of almost 28lbs.
"This will be a cinch," I had declared earlier, cockily accepting the challenge. It was beginning to dawn on me, as my hour by hour diary shows, that this had been my second mistake...
1pm
I slip the vest on for the first time, and in an instant my weight has increased from just under 12 to 14 stone. Interestingly, my first thought isn't, 'this is what it's like to be pregnant', but 'this is what it's like to be overweight'. Perhaps I'm seeing into my future, when middle-age spread has loosened my belt buckle a few notches. Actually, it doesn't feel as heavy when it's on, due to the weight being spread out, so it's not as bad as I feared. Until my colleagues start to have a good laugh at my expense, that is. They particularly like the breasts.
1:37pm
No point hanging around the office being ridiculed, not when I can go outside and be laughed at in public. Never has the journey home seemed so daunting. Luckily I work in Soho, an area of London well-accustomed to guilty looking men lurking about trying to avoid being recognised. If ever there was a time when I didn't want to run into an ex-girlfriend, this is it. How would I ever explain this one?
1:45pm
Actually, if I do 'bump' (see what I did there?) into anyone I know, they will just think I've let myself go and piled on the pounds, or possibly taken up darts. Wearing a padded vest on the London Underground doesn't strike me as the most sensible thing to do, for obvious reasons, so for the moment the vest is concealed (rather poorly actually) underneath my coat, and my secret is safe for now. Though how I explain the breasts is a different matter.
1:57pm
Unfortunately the tube carriage is almost empty, so I'm unable to ask someone to give up their seat, which is something I've been looking forward to doing all day. Still, I'm grateful for the chance to rest my legs, as I'm starting to notice the extra weight I'm carrying.
2:23pm
My stop, just as I was getting comfortable. I get to my feet in the style of a baby elephant, drawing a mixture of sympathetic looks from children, outright disgust from their mothers.
2:50pm
The supermarket, and I purposefully set out to do a big shop. If I'm going to do this, I'm going to do it properly, and for some reason I believe this should involve walking home carrying heavy shopping.
3pm
The bump has invaded my subconscious, and I have to remind myself that baby products are irrelevant because I'm NOT REALLY PREGNANT. Time to go home.
3:30pm
I arrive back at my flat, completely out of breath and puffing and panting (and sweating) like an old dog. I get my coat off just in time to see the man from the organic company deliver our weekly fruit and vegetable box. He gives me an odd stare, which I initially misinterpret as surprise that one of us is actually in at this time on a school day, but soon realise he is looking at my bump (I must be getting used to it), so I feel the need to explain the situation. He wants to try it on, but that would contravene my self-imposed code so I decline, and our rapport is lost.
4pm
Even making lunch was an effort. Eating is isn't though, and I'm stuffing my face. Well, I am eating for two now...
4:47pm
Our kitchen is looking a bit grubby, so I've decided to have a bit of a clean. I'm twenty minutes in and already I'm sweating like a dog, again. Pregnant woman must smell really, really bad. This extra weight means that even the simplest of tasks have become incredibly hard work. God, men are pathetic, aren't they? My back is starting to hurt, so I decide to have a nap instead.
6:30pm
My girlfriend comes home from work, laughs, then punches me in the stomach to, she says, "simulate kicking". Rest assured, she wouldn't do this to a real pregnant woman, or any other human being for that matter.
7:40pm
I'm knackered, so I've decided to do what a pregnant woman would do and take to the couch and er, watch the footy. Every so often I shake an empty glass at my girlfriend until she fetches me a refill. If only I had thought to get hold of a bell. She draws the line at a foot rub.
9:45pm
The evening is drawing to a close, and it's been rather uneventful, not least because I've barely moved.
10:35pm
I leave the flat briefly to buy some milk, but the men in the little shop next to our flat, who encounter me every day, don't bat an eyelid. Either they're extremely polite, or remarkably stupid. I suspect it's the former.
11pm
Bed time, usually my favourite part of the day anyway, but as I'm so knackered I'm especially looking forward to it tonight. Though I'm committed to keeping the vest on for 24 hours, I have to remove it to change my clothes, and the relief is palpable. For a few seconds I'm tempted to leave it on the bedroom floor for the night.
11:32pm
Reading with this thing on shouldn't be a problem, but it's making me extremely hot, and not in the way that my girlfriend likes. As the vest is partly designed to replicate the extra fat stored by pregnant woman, I presume this is accurate. For once I'm happy that March has been about as warm as winter in the Urals.
12:07am
A problem - I like sleeping on my front, which obviously isn't an option tonight. Lying on my back isn't much better, as the fake belly begins to press heavily on mine. Only one option, which is to sleep on my side, which I don't normally do. Plus, my girlfriend won't come near me, as she thinks cuddling up to a guy pretending to be pregnant is a bit weird. Thinking about it, she does have a point.
3:43am
I'm not getting a good sleep at all, which means I'll be irritable all day tomorrow. Every time I try and turn over I forget that I have my new found weight to drag with me. This is increasingly starting to feel like a bad idea.
7:15am
I feel like staying in bed all day; someone in my condition shouldn't have to go to work.
7:32am
I've been forced out of bed by my girlfriend (or 'that woman who lives in my flat' as I've sworn I'll call her from now on) after she dangles her wet hair in my face. I'm determined to see this through but I draw the line at sacrificing my personal hygiene, so I remove the vest temporarily to have a shower. As soon as I'm dressed, however, it's back on.
8:45am
Back on the tube, and this thing is starting to pester me. Amazing how people don't seem to notice. Once again, it's on under my coat, so more than likely they just think I need to go on a military style diet.
11am
To say I've had a few funny looks around the office is an understatement. A meeting with colleagues is particularly interesting.
12:15pm
Only 45 minutes of this torture left to endure, and I can't wait to be free from the shackles of my 'pregnancy'. The last 24 hours have felt like a week, and I can't imagine prolonging the discomfort for a few months.
12:23pm
Suddenly I think of my poor mother, who had to carry myself and my twin sister, both of us weighing over seven pounds. She deserves a medal, and I make a mental note to send her more than a card this Mother's Day.
1pm
Free at last! Removing the vest and feeling light again is a joyous moment. Obviously I'll never experience childbirth, so I'm no closer to solving that riddle than I was before this experiment began, but I have discovered a new found respect for pregnant woman. Not that I didn't respect them in the first place, I just never gave much thought to how trying an experience it must be.
Later that evening, back at my flat, my girlfriend tries on the bump for herself. She seems to wear it a lot better than I did. She smiles warmly and says: "Suits me, doesn't it?" Tsch. Women. If only they knew.
http://www.msn.co.uk/health/pregnancysimulator/Default.asp?MSPSA=1
By Ross Chainey, Health Editor
Last updated March 23 2006
As Morrissey famously sang, "Bigmouth strikes again"; one ill-informed insult directed at the female of the species, and before I knew it I was forced to step into their shoes by wearing 'The Bump' pregnancy simulator vest (complete with fake breasts) for what became the longest 24 hours of my life.
My first mistake was foolishly suggesting to my ball and chain... er, I mean my beautiful other half, that taking a direct hit on the family jewels is more painful than childbirth.
It's ridiculous, of course, everyone knows that a flying football in the testicles is by far the more painful of the two. There I go again, sorry, it's the other way around, naturally, and I only said it to get a rise out of my little love bundle, as every man who tries his luck with such a remark is doing. But it's an argument that is as old as it is completely pointless, like the one about the chicken and egg, as neither sex will ever experience the other set of circumstances.
I could, however, as was quickly pointed out to me, learn to appreciate what it's like to be pregnant - particularly the weight gain and changing body shape that occurs during pregnancy - by wearing a so-called 'bump', a weighted vest designed specifically to teach empathy and respect for pregnancy, for 24 hours.
Never slow off the mark to put me in an embarrassing situation, my boss arranged for a bump to be delivered to the office, courtesy of Life Choice Ltd, and it duly arrived in a dubious denim suitcase. 'I'm not going out in that,' I think to myself, before realising that what lies within the suitcase is potentially much more humiliating.
I'm confident that the experiment will pass without much incident or inconvenience to myself. Then I try and lift the thing to put it on for the first time, and my arm is dragged to the floor like a cartoon character dropping an anvil. It's surprising how heavy it is - even at full-term, a baby only weighs about 7lbs, right? Wrong. I've neglected to add the placenta, enlarged breasts (or just breasts in my case) extra fat supplies required for making breast milk, uterine muscle, extra blood, fluid, and amniotic fluid, all of which come together to form a bulky package of almost 28lbs.
"This will be a cinch," I had declared earlier, cockily accepting the challenge. It was beginning to dawn on me, as my hour by hour diary shows, that this had been my second mistake...
1pm
I slip the vest on for the first time, and in an instant my weight has increased from just under 12 to 14 stone. Interestingly, my first thought isn't, 'this is what it's like to be pregnant', but 'this is what it's like to be overweight'. Perhaps I'm seeing into my future, when middle-age spread has loosened my belt buckle a few notches. Actually, it doesn't feel as heavy when it's on, due to the weight being spread out, so it's not as bad as I feared. Until my colleagues start to have a good laugh at my expense, that is. They particularly like the breasts.
1:37pm
No point hanging around the office being ridiculed, not when I can go outside and be laughed at in public. Never has the journey home seemed so daunting. Luckily I work in Soho, an area of London well-accustomed to guilty looking men lurking about trying to avoid being recognised. If ever there was a time when I didn't want to run into an ex-girlfriend, this is it. How would I ever explain this one?
1:45pm
Actually, if I do 'bump' (see what I did there?) into anyone I know, they will just think I've let myself go and piled on the pounds, or possibly taken up darts. Wearing a padded vest on the London Underground doesn't strike me as the most sensible thing to do, for obvious reasons, so for the moment the vest is concealed (rather poorly actually) underneath my coat, and my secret is safe for now. Though how I explain the breasts is a different matter.
1:57pm
Unfortunately the tube carriage is almost empty, so I'm unable to ask someone to give up their seat, which is something I've been looking forward to doing all day. Still, I'm grateful for the chance to rest my legs, as I'm starting to notice the extra weight I'm carrying.
2:23pm
My stop, just as I was getting comfortable. I get to my feet in the style of a baby elephant, drawing a mixture of sympathetic looks from children, outright disgust from their mothers.
2:50pm
The supermarket, and I purposefully set out to do a big shop. If I'm going to do this, I'm going to do it properly, and for some reason I believe this should involve walking home carrying heavy shopping.
3pm
The bump has invaded my subconscious, and I have to remind myself that baby products are irrelevant because I'm NOT REALLY PREGNANT. Time to go home.
3:30pm
I arrive back at my flat, completely out of breath and puffing and panting (and sweating) like an old dog. I get my coat off just in time to see the man from the organic company deliver our weekly fruit and vegetable box. He gives me an odd stare, which I initially misinterpret as surprise that one of us is actually in at this time on a school day, but soon realise he is looking at my bump (I must be getting used to it), so I feel the need to explain the situation. He wants to try it on, but that would contravene my self-imposed code so I decline, and our rapport is lost.
4pm
Even making lunch was an effort. Eating is isn't though, and I'm stuffing my face. Well, I am eating for two now...
4:47pm
Our kitchen is looking a bit grubby, so I've decided to have a bit of a clean. I'm twenty minutes in and already I'm sweating like a dog, again. Pregnant woman must smell really, really bad. This extra weight means that even the simplest of tasks have become incredibly hard work. God, men are pathetic, aren't they? My back is starting to hurt, so I decide to have a nap instead.
6:30pm
My girlfriend comes home from work, laughs, then punches me in the stomach to, she says, "simulate kicking". Rest assured, she wouldn't do this to a real pregnant woman, or any other human being for that matter.
7:40pm
I'm knackered, so I've decided to do what a pregnant woman would do and take to the couch and er, watch the footy. Every so often I shake an empty glass at my girlfriend until she fetches me a refill. If only I had thought to get hold of a bell. She draws the line at a foot rub.
9:45pm
The evening is drawing to a close, and it's been rather uneventful, not least because I've barely moved.
10:35pm
I leave the flat briefly to buy some milk, but the men in the little shop next to our flat, who encounter me every day, don't bat an eyelid. Either they're extremely polite, or remarkably stupid. I suspect it's the former.
11pm
Bed time, usually my favourite part of the day anyway, but as I'm so knackered I'm especially looking forward to it tonight. Though I'm committed to keeping the vest on for 24 hours, I have to remove it to change my clothes, and the relief is palpable. For a few seconds I'm tempted to leave it on the bedroom floor for the night.
11:32pm
Reading with this thing on shouldn't be a problem, but it's making me extremely hot, and not in the way that my girlfriend likes. As the vest is partly designed to replicate the extra fat stored by pregnant woman, I presume this is accurate. For once I'm happy that March has been about as warm as winter in the Urals.
12:07am
A problem - I like sleeping on my front, which obviously isn't an option tonight. Lying on my back isn't much better, as the fake belly begins to press heavily on mine. Only one option, which is to sleep on my side, which I don't normally do. Plus, my girlfriend won't come near me, as she thinks cuddling up to a guy pretending to be pregnant is a bit weird. Thinking about it, she does have a point.
3:43am
I'm not getting a good sleep at all, which means I'll be irritable all day tomorrow. Every time I try and turn over I forget that I have my new found weight to drag with me. This is increasingly starting to feel like a bad idea.
7:15am
I feel like staying in bed all day; someone in my condition shouldn't have to go to work.
7:32am
I've been forced out of bed by my girlfriend (or 'that woman who lives in my flat' as I've sworn I'll call her from now on) after she dangles her wet hair in my face. I'm determined to see this through but I draw the line at sacrificing my personal hygiene, so I remove the vest temporarily to have a shower. As soon as I'm dressed, however, it's back on.
8:45am
Back on the tube, and this thing is starting to pester me. Amazing how people don't seem to notice. Once again, it's on under my coat, so more than likely they just think I need to go on a military style diet.
11am
To say I've had a few funny looks around the office is an understatement. A meeting with colleagues is particularly interesting.
12:15pm
Only 45 minutes of this torture left to endure, and I can't wait to be free from the shackles of my 'pregnancy'. The last 24 hours have felt like a week, and I can't imagine prolonging the discomfort for a few months.
12:23pm
Suddenly I think of my poor mother, who had to carry myself and my twin sister, both of us weighing over seven pounds. She deserves a medal, and I make a mental note to send her more than a card this Mother's Day.
1pm
Free at last! Removing the vest and feeling light again is a joyous moment. Obviously I'll never experience childbirth, so I'm no closer to solving that riddle than I was before this experiment began, but I have discovered a new found respect for pregnant woman. Not that I didn't respect them in the first place, I just never gave much thought to how trying an experience it must be.
Later that evening, back at my flat, my girlfriend tries on the bump for herself. She seems to wear it a lot better than I did. She smiles warmly and says: "Suits me, doesn't it?" Tsch. Women. If only they knew.
http://www.msn.co.uk/health/pregnancysimulator/Default.asp?MSPSA=1
By Ross Chainey, Health Editor
Last updated March 23 2006