So, this week? I came to the conclusion that I absolutely hate everything I own (including *most* of the maternity clothes that I purchased months ago) and I went on yet another maternity clothing shopping spree. I checked all of the basic stores where I could get a lot for a little (Old Navy, Gap, etc.) and was positively astonished – and rather horrified, actually – to see some of my offerings. I mean, velour maternity pants? I really want to
sausage pack gently swaddle my growing ass in velour? What kind of heartless bastards are these folks? The very last thing I want is a pair of faux-velvet-looking pants painted on, which verily accentuate every dent, groove, fold and wrinkle (and that’s just when I’m standing, friends). And because I’m not one of those lucky women who only put on five pounds when they’re pregnant, these monstrosities only spit in my puffy face.
Also. Does no one manufacture maternity tights? I mean, the colder weather is upon us, and all I have is one larger-sized pair of tights that fit right now. Kind of. This past Sunday, I was at church (I sing for our congregation’s praise band, if you can believe it) and we were sound-checking as the people entered the sanctuary. And let me say, when we get a crowd, we get a crowd. Like, 300+ people. It’s big time. Well, unbeknowst to me, my mic was hot, and it caught me complaining to our guitarist that every time I bent over, my pantyhose rolled over my growing belly and caught around my hips (ha! What hips?!) like a slingshot. If you’re wondering if the entire congregation heard me, the short, Hello-Giggles-PG-appropriate answer is “yes.”
Incidentally, in case you’re wondering, the accompanying photo is not my velour-clad ass. Don’t get me wrong – it’s a perfectly lovely ass. It’s just not mine.