Pumping on the go.....

I had to visit a client this morning, and his office is on a pretty ritzy and high-security campus. My plan had been to show up a bit early and pump in the parking lot, in a secluded spot (hopefully) before my meeting. So I pulled up to the guard house at the entrance, and there was a man and a woman inside. They said, “Who are you here for?” I told them, then said, “But before you call him, could I ask a favor?” I told them I was a nursing mother and needed to pump, and could we please dispense of calling ahead to announce my presence until I was finished. I must look reasonable because the female guard agreed, and was just giving me a map and showing me a good place to go when the male guard, apparently ignoring everything transpiring in front of him, hung up the phone and announced brightly, “Okay!! And Mr. F. will be waiting for you at Entrance 6.”

CRAP!!!! He called ahead to announce that I was here!!!!! Here are my new possible scenarios: 1. I’m pumping in the lot and my client COMES LOOKING FOR ME, or sends security to come looking for me. The image of me attached to my breast pump with my client walking up to the car almost made me pass out. Or 2. I don’t pump, my meeting runs long, and I start leaking. Now my mental image is of me with 2 big wet spots on my stylish pale linen shirt, trying to explain my ideas while nonchalantly pressing my forearms against my nipples with all my might. I glared daggers at the male guard and appealed to the female guard. She winced and said, “All I can do is call him and tell him you’ll be a few minutes.”

Fine. I thanked her, mentally cursed the other guy, and drove onto the property to find a spot. No secluded spots– I might as well have parked at the grocery store on Saturday morning. As I pumped, I was in full paranoia mode, looking around at all sides for approaching people and wondering what my client thought I was doing (for some reason, I was convinced he would think I was on the property somewhere, taking a giant emergency dump). When i finally finished up, called my client, and met him at the entrance, he said, “What happened?” I opened my mouth with absolutely no idea what to say– I had been too busy imagining the giant-dump scenario to come up with an excuse beforehand– and out of my mouth came, “I had an emergency phone call that I had to attend to.” Fine. Except then we went into the meeting, and there sat about 5,000 middle-aged men, all of whom had gone straight into the conference room as soon as the guard made the call, and all of whom clearly believed my “emergency call” had had something to do with tampons.

On my way out, I handed my parking pass to the female guard with a smile and said, “Thank you so much for your help.” The male guard said, “You’re welc–” and just shut up, stunned into silence by the look of pure hatred on my face. Idiot.

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