"You could really use a glass of wine right about now," The Suitor said to me in our car. I was cranky, and quite miserable actually, that none of my clothes fit. "This is a good thing," he reminded me. "Remember all those times you cried and would have begged to be pregnant and not fitting in your clothes? Well?" Well, at that time I didn’t realize that ELASTIC would get too tight!
Even my cargo pants with cute drawstring elastic waists are now too small. Last night I hurled them to the top shelf of my closet, the part I cannot reach without a step-stool. Usually the shelf is "thin storage," filled with items I’m convinced will fit soon. Now they belong in boxes, in an attic or garage, nowhere near within my reach for possibility.
I always thought shopping for maternity clothes would be fun. Of course, I thought this when I still lived in New York, where they sell Seven Jeans for their maternitini-drinking clientele at A Pea In The Pod. I don’t have a problem with tops, thankfully, because really, they’re cutting them longer lately with empire waists anyway. But pants. Holy fuck, pants with sagging crotches, so big it looks as if they’re meant to accommodate an ass. I don’t see the point in buying anything that fits now because I know I’ll outgrow it in a matter of weeks. My doctor even said so at our last office visit as he measured my belly. "Get ready to grow a lot, and fast."
But I have a wedding dress to fit into! My wedding is in eleven days. How much will I grow in eleven days? Please! It can’t be all that much. But now I know it can because even elastic hurts. No one tells you that your back gets bigger (not your cup size). I’m sorry, but your boobs are supposed to grow, not your back and your areolas. And sorry, but what an ugly word: areola. Worse still is the idea that they’ll spread to look like silver dollar pancakes.
My belly is as tight as a drum right now, but it’s low, as if I just ate a Thanksgiving meal, or four. I can no longer button pants. Jeans–I won’t even try. And that’s fine. I’m nearly 5 months pregnant. They shouldn’t fit. I get that. But the problem really is, I refuse to walk around in his clothes (mostly because he’s perfectly content shopping at Old Navy and making tee-shirts with prints of photos he has taken, shit with sunflowers on them, that really shouldn’t be worn anywhere, except maybe around the house. Maybe.) And none of mine work anymore.
This means online shopping on sites that tout themselves stylish, insisting they cater to pregnant women who love clothes. And they charge $80 for a tee shirt. $235 for maternity Serfontaine jeans (a brand I love and wore pre-pregnancy). But don’t ask me about sizing. I need to be in a store, trying on these things. I can’t just guess at my size. “Well what was your pre-pregnancy size?” Please, like there’s some simple answer for that? I don’t know. All I know is, I’m having twins, and nothing fits!
I will order some things from Gap Maternity, because really, it’s the Gap. I can do that. I cannot bring myself to shop for clothing at Target. Target is for random home stuff, for a toaster or magazine rack. I’m not wearing a target nursing bra. Call me a snob. I don’t give a shit. I also don’t want to spend upwards of $235 on designer maternity jeans, especially since, well, it’s never cool enough for jeans here. But my butt and I will be traveling soon. To New York. To Chicago. To San Francisco. And I’ll need clothes. I’ve already unsuccessfully hit up Mimi Maternity, BabyStyle, Due, and just about every other store with the word Maternity or Motherhood in it. I’ve stepped into boutiques, but again, their prices seem a bit outrageous, given that I can just as easily find a stretchy black skirt at Express for $20 instead of $90. He’s right. I could use a glass of wine with my whine. Instead I’ll pour my grapefruit juice into a martini glass and scour these sites: Naissance on Melrose, Isabella Oliver, and Belly Dance. That, or I’ll read up on lactating feminists (I totally intend to be one of those women who whips it out in public).