My clothes don’t fit.
This is inconvenient, because I don’t even really look that pregnant. If I stand up straight and suck in my stomach as I have been taught to do my whole life, then I just look a little pudgy. So the fact that I no longer have jeans is pretty traumatic. This is exacerbated by the fact that though I have bought three pairs of the exact same maternity jeans, only one pair is comfortable. And I now have to wear “business casual” (a fashion state that has alluded me my whole life) every day to work.
I set off to the mall with my friend, knowing I had to buy clothes. I hate buying clothes, unless they can be described as “cutesy” and/or “shmutsey” and will hopefully one day fit an infant girl who shares my DNA.
I was successful for the most part. I found pants! But I could not find jeans. And my search was stopped by the fact that two sales people (yeah, I’m looking at you Motherhood Maternity) would not leave me alone. I merely wanted to purchase a underwear that promised to fit (note to the world–never underestimate the psychic power of underwear that don’t cut off circulation to your lower extremities). But the sales women, I don’t know. Maybe they work on commission? Our conversation went like this,
“Okay, what can I do to get you into a pair of jeans today?!” (Some people do speak in multiple kinds of punctuation.)
“Um, well, none of these fit. And the ones that do have weird belly strap things and horizontal stripes. I look like a freak in . . .”
“WHAT? There is no NEED to FEEL this way.” She emoted not unlike one Josh Groban. “You NEED a PETIT extra LARGE.” Her voice undulated as she gesticulated wildly, grabbing the commission out of my hands.
“HERE,” she bellowed. “TRY THESE!!!!” I decided that it was useless to argue that extra large would be too big and that I was not petit. Just sort of short. These are not the same things. I tried on those jeans, wretched, wretched garments surely constructed for a being not of this world. They managed to be both too small and too big at the same time. They were art that M.C. Escher would have found confusing. I had to jump up and down to get one pair on. This would be most inconvenient in my third trimester. In late summer. I gave up.
I furtively ran to the cash register, my loquacious friend blessedly distracting the militant sales lady. I found my underwear again and tried to pay.
“Okay,” said the other sales woman. “Do you want to register in our system?”
“No thanks, just want to buy these.” In cash, I thought silently, thinking that otherwise they’d track me down and shove me into petit pedal pushers.
“Are you sure? We will send you discounts!”
“Yup, I’m sure.”
“Well, how about signing up for 400 hundred dollars worth of rebates for diapers, formula . . .”
“No. Thank. You.” I said through gritted teeth.
“Do you want to register for our website? Do you have life insurance for your baby? Does your little one need a dentist recommendation? Do you need a credit card that will save points for your baby’s college education?”
I was beyond speaking at that point. A far-away dolphin, who could hear my high-frequency rage squeaked back that I probably should have eaten before this trip.
“No? Well, do you want two free issues of Parent Magazine? It’s a great resource for . . .”
“PLEASE JUST LET ME HAVE THE COMFORTABLE UNDERGARMETS FOR THE LOVE OF SWEET HEAVEN,” I errupted. Honestly. If I wanted any of those things, would I tie their purchase to maternity clothes? My child’s education? Sister, please. College will be 100,000 dollars a year before little TheologyInfant makes her way to school, and by then I’m hoping we’re living in a post-education age and she can just download neccessary information into her brain from VocationFeed.com (TM) or something.
The woman gave me a dirty look and rang up my purchase. My friend was going to try to chat some more but I gave her a look that said “Do not engage these people.” I left the store vowing that I would wear a bed sheet and twine before crossing that threshold again.
At least for now I have clothes that fit. Which is good, because I think I might be thrown in jail for disorderly conduct if someone tried to offer me as little as a sample of Mandarin chicken in a mall food court.
