I am the worst pregnant chick ever.
“How many weeks are you again?” my friend Gwen asked just the other day.
“I’m pretty sure I’m in the second trimester,” was the most specific answer I could give her. Thank goodness I signed up for one of those newsletter thingies that reminds me once a week how pregnant I am. I already forgot again but allegedly the parasite is the size of an apple. So now my uterus is a soggy fruit bowl. Awesome.
It’s a good thing I have friends that are dragging me through this despite my kicking and screaming. My friend Danielle made me visit the maternity section at Macy’s after I spent the afternoon complaining about how I had a whole second set of boobs spilling over the top of my bra. (You remember how much I like bra shopping, right?)
But Interwebz? I let that sales woman feel me up, hand me a bra that looked more like a pair of helmets than clothing, and escort me to a dressing room. And as soon as I strapped that foam filled tarp to my body, a choir of heavenly angels filled my ears and a ray of light shown down upon my fully contained rack. It turns out they changed the CD in the sound system and a maintenance guy was replacing a bulb in the tract lighting, but still…it seemed damn special.
I walked out of the dressing room, pulled my shirt collar wide and asked the sales lady to reach on in and cut out the tags. Sure the new bra had disturbing easy-access panels and only came in “old lady nude knee high brown,” but there was no way in hell I could bring myself to put back on my old bra. And there was much rejoicing. And I owe Danielle a margarita. So do my tits.
Flush with my triumph, I decided maybe to branch into the world of maternity wear. As I mentioned yesterday, my pant situation is rather dire. But I just don’t understand maternity wear. I mean, do you order the size you were before you got pregnant and just assume that because it’s maternity wear they’ve made some sort of adjustment for that? Or do you guess what size you might be if you were trying to cram yourself into some non-maternity wear? Or do they have some completely different, secret society sizing that you can’t understand unless you take a sacred oath and spend four weeks in a certification class? AND WHY DOES EVERYTHING HAVE TO BE MAIL ORDER?!??!
So I went online and did the Old Navy thing because I’m a cheap…er…frugal gal. I’d originally budgeted $70 for maternity wear over the course of the pregnancy and I’d already blown my entire wad on two bras. Don’t ask me how I came up with $70 as a good budget. In hindsight, I can see that’s kinda low. But really, how much money do you want to blow on clothes you’re going to wear for all of 6 months of your life? (Obviously the parasite will be wearing flour sacks until it’s fourteen.) And no one really wants to find themselves saying, “Oh you like this dress? I bought it when I was 8 months pregnant! Can you believe it still fits?”
Long story still happening somehow, my Old Navy pants came and they fit just right all the way up to my thighs and then? Acres of excess fabric. Apparently I’m not THAT pregnant.
Somehow I thought the fabric would be stretchier or something so that I could wear them now. But it isn’t. These pants are built for the FULLY pregnant gal. And there are no belt loops on the pants. Because apparently pregnant chicks don’t wear belts. (Note to self.) And so these pants have a tendency to fall right down. In public. Which is just awesome.
I’ve tried tucking the stretchy belly area up under the band of my swanky new bras. I’ve tried rolling the fabric down like yoga pants. I’ve tried binder clips and duct tape and staples and animal sacrifices. No dice. I can hardly keep these damn pants on. Do they make maternity suspenders?
Did I mention that I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing? Worst pregnant chick ever.
Oh speaking of things I space on, I forgot to tell you about the Sprocket stuff this week. So if you need MORE reading material today, here’s some survival tips to survive being trapped in an elevator and a hard hitting news piece on a mob trial in Brooklyn.