Being pregnant in New York is like being an extra in the movie “Groundhog Day.”

Each morning you wake up hoping for something different, only to find you are surrounded by the same fools doing the same ridiculous things.

For the past eight months I have been this “Groundhog Day” extra, giving people the benefit of the doubt only to be rudely slapped by the reality of their mind-numbing selfishness and self-involvement.

Like so many here in NYC, I am a career woman. I’m not a feminist by any means, but neither do I demand a steady stream of chivalry from my fellow New Yorkers.

However, I have always been more traditional in my own behavior.

This probably stems from being raised by a mother who taught me to be independent, but also giving and empathetic to others.

For example, if I see an elderly person with a heavy bag, I will offer to carry it. Usually when I approach they think I want to mug them — but once we clear that up, they’re pleasantly surprised by the offer.

If I see a parent with kids, a stroller or a baby strapped to their chest, I offer my seat on the subway. The same applies to the disabled, pregnant or elderly.

Basic etiquette: You give up your seat.

Or so I thought.

Now, as a pregnant person myself, I have been shoved while available seats are bum-rushed by eager teenagers fixated on their smartphones.

Perhaps what’s most amusing is the sudden interest seated people on a subway find in their shoes, purse, phone, newspaper, etc. when a pregnant person is standing in front of them.

Suddenly my huge pregnant belly is invisible as they pretend to not see me swinging from the handrail above and maintaining my balance while straddling their incredibly interesting shoes.

In stores, people are annoyed I’m not moving down the aisle fast enough. I had no idea that the pressure was on in Rite Aid or the supermarket to get out of the store as fast as possible.

Is there some sort of discount awarded to the first person who can get into the checkout line?

And I would be remiss if I left out the sidewalk wars.

It’s hard enough getting around this overcrowded city. But couple that with the summer heat and those individuals who walk in what I call “four-ply.” Like a roll of paper towels they just stretch across the pavement absorbing all the space.

These people think they own the sidewalk, and nobody — certainly not some pregnant lady — is going to break through their wall of pavement-hogging flesh.

Then there are those whose faces are buried in their iPhone typing, texting or Facetiming as they walk right into me or the next manhole, whichever comes first.

Fortunately for me, I live in a building with a lot of WWII veterans. They’re eager to have someone treat them like a human being, and not just some old person.

I make lunch dates with some of them, and as they tell me stories about their week, I notice we have something in common: they’re being pushed around this city, too.

It seems the elderly don’t move fast enough, either, to suit the racing public of New York City.

This all might sound petty and ridiculous, and compared to news like ISIS and sex-trafficking it most certainly is.

But I experience five or six such incidents a day. It’s shocking. It truly confirms that basic human decency is running in the subway tracks with the rats.

In talking to my girlfriends, it’s clear I’m not the first to experience these incidents — just perhaps the first to want to publicly shame the perpetrators.

There seem to be a lot of people in a big hurry.

Which is fine. Hey, I’m in a hurry, too. Always running from work to school to meetings to dinner with friends — all the normal things we do in this busy city.

It’s just that now my top speed is a little slower than it used to be, and New Yorkers don’t take kindly to people getting in their way, no matter the reason.

I get that everyone’s busy. But look: If you see a pregnant person, remember they’re not trying to get in your way. Don’t take their slowness personally.

They’re just trying to create a life — hey, no biggie — while you’re desperate to reach the next level on Candy Crush.

So have some perspective.



Lynda McLaughlin is an executive producer working in radio. She lives in Manhattan with her husband, and shortly her son.