An Open Letter to the Biggby Coffee Girl

Dear Biggby Coffee girl,
Listen. It's not that I don't enjoy our chats. Even though you've asked me twenty times whether I'm having a girl or a boy, and whether I'm going to have the epidural (which, just for future reference, is a weird and slightly invasive question), I'm still fine with it. But today you took it a step too far. The comments "You're getting bigger every day" (...thanks?), and "You've got three months left? Are you worried your stomach is going to get really huge?" (Well, I wasn't.. but now I'll go home and cry about it. My husband is going to love you.)? Well, they were a bit much.
I know this is going to come as a shock to you, but we don't know each other. Yes, I know your name. I even know how it's spelled, which brings me to the subject of phonetics and how they failed you, but that's a blog for another day. And yes, you've told me ALLLLLLL about your pregnancy, even went so far as to tell me how you found out you were pregnant (missed period.. usually a tell-tale sign). The truth is, I think you would be shocked by how many women get pregnant every year. It's actually not just you and me. This is the way the world repopulates itself, which leads to coffee drinkers, which is why you're employed, which is why you live another day to haunt me with your terrifying questions. But if you feel that your connection with me has to do with the fact that we've both experienced pregnancy, let me tell you, you've got a connection with a lot of other people. What I'm getting at is, I do not want to have confessional time with you simply for this reason.
What you might also not know is that I avoid you. Constantly. Luckily for me, there are about five Biggbys in this town, and I'll often drive out of my way to go to another one. The only way that I go to yours is if I am almost directly in front of it and a mini-sized Al Gore is sitting on my shoulder telling me that wasting gas to avoid you is WRONG WRONG WRONG, Earth-killer Laura! You're really driving business away. A lot of business, as I drink a lot of coffee. Decaf, unfortunately. Remember that time that I came through the drive thru and, even after you gave me my coffee, I sat there for three extra minutes while you told me about your due date, while a line of cars piled up behind me? You should know that, after I finally escaped, my husband, sitting next to me in the car, said "What the hell was that?" And that, Biggby Girl, is when I knew I wasn't insane. That in fact it was YOU who is insane.
In conclusion, I won't be coming in anymore. Based on the trend of more personal questions each visit, I'm afraid that you're going to eventually ask to deliver my baby. I'm uncomfortable with that. It was interesting knowing you. Maybe just stick to brewing the coffee.
Best,
Laura