Well, bless your heart. And that’s a real blessing, not a Southern “go fuck yourself.”
This morning I left the house to see a rainy morning. It was chilly. But I was toasty warm, from the inside out. Let’s start with the foundation.
Last week I tried to buy a pair of shoes to lift my spirits and ended up with a Hanes six pack of, let’s call them modest, ladies underwear. And this morning I was thinking… if the cheap big girl panties feel this fantastic what must the nice ones feel like? Enveloping yourself in a sleeping bag made of cake? Pudding? What? I can’t even really imagine. Thank you, Hanes underwear. I had underestimated you and your low-rise hipster comfort.
As much as I hated to cover them up (and their bright and cheerfully colored stripes, unlike the black, deep red and mellower colors of my less modest knickers) I pulled on a pair of corduroys this morning for the first time this fall. Corduroys are not the body conscious girl’s friend. Any kind of pants that actually makes an audible noise reminding you with each step that your thighs rub together is not your friend. But elastic waist band corduroys when you are pregnant and slightly less concerned about your thighs rubbing together … what a dream. Thank you elastic waist corduroy pants.
Can my day get better?
Yes, yes it can. It’s a little chilly today you say? No problem. Lucky for me two winter seasons ago the Sweater people in the sky decided Big, Billowy and Ugly was the way to go! Cramming your 20 pounds heavier, many, many inches larger around self in to a sweater that was originally designed to make you look like Twiggy is foolish, for example the turtleneck sweater. As a pregnant gal the opportunity to wear any of your pre-pregnancy, not-maternity clothes is bliss. Even if those clothes did previously make you look like a homeless person wearing nine layers of clothing. Thank you trendsetters and sweater people for deciding that gigantic sweaters are the way to go. I will wrap myself in your non-maternity wear glory all winter.
Underwear, pants, sweater. I need shoes! I love shoes. All kinds. I highlight my foot wear here often. Hmm, what to choose. I look down at myself. A sea of brown and grey, warm comfy fabrics. I am a dead ringer for Mr. Gillmarten circa 1983. (FYI – if you find this via Google, Mr Gillmarten, you were a well loved elementary school teacher. You were kind and funny and quirky. You were just not my fashion icon in the days when I wanted to look like Madonna.) Clogs! I need clogs to complete my look. Bless your heart, Dansko. You wonderfully sensible, comfortable and yet wholly unattractive shoe company.
The last time I was a little shy of my third trimester of pregnancy it was July. At the beach. There was no embracing of my inner giganticness. I was not gigantic on the inside of anything. I recall I took to wearing XL boyshort brief underwear as shorts. It was hot. I was not. Gross displays of flesh is not frowned upon at the beach. It is just part of the equation. You want to admire the majestic powers of the ocean mid summer in a popular beach locale? Then you will have to try to overlook the middle aged bikini wearing. It comes with the territory.
But October? Sweet October in all of your overcast, sixty-five degree glory. Take another gander at my well appointed DD’s. What’s that? You didn’t notice them? You were too busy admiring my sensible footwear, cozy pants and warm sweater? Well just wait until you get a peek at my big girl underwear. You’re gonna flip, October.