Today, I get a spray tan.
Yesterday, I cried in three different stores' dressing rooms whilst trying on maternity bathing suits.
Apparently, most pregnant women who are interested in swimming are built less like me (boobs > belly) and more like Homer Simpson.
My dirty pillows cannot be tamed, I guess, and that is something that Sloan's grandmother, parents, and small nieces are going to have to deal with, along with the residents of Maui (which, I hear, consist mainly of chickens). I will be strong and proud like India.Arie and I will not let this bother me.
I cried a little during prenatal yoga (which essentially, is repeatedly bending over and then standing back up slowly) because the downward facing dog pose has now become I-didn't-know-I-had/could get-cellulite-on-my-knees-pose. Honestly, though, any woman with a strong self-worth would be so annoyed by this blog post, and I SHOULD CARE ABOUT THAT. Especially if she kept reading and learned that my effort to edit some work manuals turned into a two hour journey deep into the archives of Facebook's photos of my beautiful and thin friends, and their beautiful and thin friends. What a waste of a brilliant mind like mine that can add three digit numbers together without using my fingers to carry the ones.
And so what if I put down my copy of The Feminine Mystique so that I could read InStyle's expose on why women just love chocolate and Oprah so darn much? Isn't that something important to know?
What have I turned into? Someone who is so emotionally wrought by Lycra that I sob quietly in a tiny changing stall as Josh Grobin plays on a loudspeaker? Someone who actually and sincerely wishes that her pretty acquaintances would get maimed or otherwise disfigured solely to lower their aesthetic appeal? Might I try to (surreptitiously) emotionally abuse my sisters-in-law to shame them into eating more and stop wearing cute clothes while on our island vacation? A well-placed barb about one's intelligence/demeanor/skin can really be effective in crushing one's confidence to pull off that cute new sun dress. And if that's what it takes to make me look less like a freshly-shaved hobbit, then that's what I'll do.
Oh, honey, no. Don't wear that adorable eyelet dress with those gold sandals. You look terrible. I didn't want to say it, but somebody had to. Try this muumuu with the Birkenstocks. Much better.