The pile grows higher every day. Higher and bigger. That pile of clean laundry rises daily from a Large to an Extra Large, and from an Extra Large to a…dun dun DUN…Extra EXTRA Large. We’ll clean on Sunday and by Friday, our bedroom floor is the new home of 22 wrinkled shirts, 3 pair of dress pants, 4 tanktops, random miscellaneous undergarments, and a pair of pajama bottoms that I swear fit me last week!
I guess what they say is true. I will continue to get bigger. My baby grows a half a pound a week from now until the finish line, and considering the cheeseburgers and chips that I eat regularly for breakfast, I’d say I’m destined to gain at least one pound a week. Six more weeks = Six more pounds (minimum – let’s not fool ourselves. Reference: cheeseburgers and chips). Six more pounds means I am sure to grow out of at least one more pair of work pants and pretty much ALL of my tanktops. As of now, my mornings go something like this:
Get out of shower. Have outfit picked out in head. Try it on. Throw at least half of it on the ground because either A) my stomach pokes out the bottom or B) My breathing/circulation has come to an abrupt stop or C) you can visibly see my newly-formed cankles. Undershirts that fit me literally YESTERDAY now creep up to right below my belly button. Not so professional, I must say. And, even though I’m starting to care less and less about my physical appearance at work, I still have my standards, and they don’t include donning my stretch marked midriff to my department or camel-toeing my way to nickname hell.
Once half the outfit is on the floor, I rummage through the other “longest tanktops I’ve got” and see if any of those will suffice. No. No. No again. Unbelievable how much shirt space this kid consumes! Finally, I find one that reveals limited skinnage and decide to roll with it since I’m already near tears and it’s not even 8 a.m. yet. Then, I find a top to cover it but care much less about that choice since I’ve already got the hard part taken care of. On to pants. Pants are always a pretty miserable experience for women. I have one pair that still fit me comfortably, all decked out with the lovely gut cover that jacks up to your fatty prego boobs and “holds in” your stomach. Well, it finally happened. My stomach can no longer be held in. The top of the waist band actually sits at my waist now. Last month, it was jacked to the max. Unbelievable! At this rate, with one month remaining, by the end those pants will be long retired and I’ll be wearing sweatpants to work. Really? You’re going to mess with THIS, Mr. CEO? I don’t think so.
Once I’ve got pants and a shirt semi-securely fitted on my disproportionate body, I am usually desperate for some accessories. Accessories ALWAYS fit. It’s a wonderful thing. Grab a new colorful purse, mix and match necklaces, and finish it off with a cute pair of shoes. But wait just a minute…why is it that my shoes DON’T FIT? Yesterday morning I actually tried on a pair of shoes and threw them across the room because they were too tight. MY SHOES WERE TOO TIGHT! Are…you…kidding….me?! A couple F-bombs later I was a mess of tears and felt the need to start all over with the dressing process. But I decided why bother, right? I can only rotate three shirts and one pair of pants so many times before people start picking up on it. And, those old tattered flip-flops have become my new go-to-shoe. If I ever see the day when I can’t squeeze in to those, someone just put me out of my misery.
One month to go. One hot summer month. Today hit 90 degrees (a record high – yes, I AM lucky. Thanks for noticing). 90 degrees and no central air. 90 degrees and two ceiling fans and 45 extra pounds of weight. I guess days like this are when I should be thankful that none of my clothes fit. What better excuse to walk around in your skivvies than a 90 degree day, no A/C, and a gigantic baby-filled stomach? It was a beautiful thing. Now, if only I could get away with that at work. I imagine it probably wouldn’t fly, but there would definitely be no better time to test it out than now. Even I’M not that gutsy. Guess that gives me just one MORE reason to look forward to the weekends.
And with every day of failed outfit-making, I get one day closer to the end. And, I certainly don’t expect to get into my size 8 jeans again right away (although a girl can dream), but I would be just as satisfied being able to pull up the pants I wore last month without a blasphemous revealing of buttcrack. It’s the simple pleasures that I live for now, one day and one desperate outfit at a time.