Oh, the problem with pride.

It never looks good on anyone.

It’s often propelled by feelings of inadequacy.

And it’s the fastest way to get me to do something: Tell me I can’t do something. 

Because pride, propelled by inadequacy, always has something to prove.

Drew recently told me I can’t be push-mowing the lawn at 35 weeks pregnant.

So I sashayed out to our front lawn, lined the mower up in my prized baseball-diamond-like pattern, and invited the world to look on as I peacocked around the yard.

Unbeknownst to me, the blade height had been placed on its lowest setting days prior to prepare a small area of the yard for sod.

It was a particularly intense mowing experience for me.  I was unnaturally winded and sweaty from what should have been merely guiding a self-propelled mower.

The mower instead shut off with each step because of the unreasonable amount of grass clippings lodged in its blade.

The obvious solution was to hover over the mower handle with enough weight to tilt its front wheels off the ground, which successfully prevented the mower from shutting off, allowing me to scalp the rest of the yard.

What was initially green, full grass became a champion dirt bike track.

Drew was mortified, and I have to believe our neighbors were too.

While the grass mostly rebounded, my ego hadn’t.

Oh, the problem with pride.

In a desperate attempt to show out, I began painting the exterior trim around our garage doors.

Because pregnant women can’t be on tall ladders.

My paint tray was full, resting atop the highest rung, and I was feeling fairly accomplished.

Some of the neighbors even stopped and complimented my work ethic, acknowledging my pregnant state.

Feather in my cap.

Then I knocked the ladder over, splattering paint everywhere.

Oh, the problem with pride.

It never looks good on anyone.

It especially did not look good on me the day Drew humbly asked me to courier his remaining, beloved fish to a pet store across town.

I balked. I’m above this. 

Just this past Fall, my Drew undertook fish-tanking in honor of “Andy’s love” for fish.  See Fish Goals. 

Despite Drew’s heart for fish, multiple mysterious fatalities indicated the aquarium wasn’t for us.

Drew was adamant that we needed to relocate the last living fish, lone Sid the Scissortail.

Was it necessary to drive across town for a mere $3.00 fish?

My time, dignity, and gas money were worth more than that.

Yet there I was in my kitchen, gingerly placing Sid in a 20-quart, stainless-steel stock pot.

Away we went.

When Andy and I presented the stock pot containing Sid to the pet-shop employee, she was unimpressed and proceeded to continuously stare right through me.

It was as if I had offended her.

Upon returning home, Drew politely relayed that my shirt had ridden halfway up my torso, exposing most of my unsightly and distended pregnant abdomen.

You should know that my unfortunate belly button currently resembles a mini hot dog—on a good day.

Looking on that would have offended anyone.

Oh, the problem with pride.

It’s best if we have none.