Swelling in Dim Lighting

I was standing in only a bra and underwear, in a 3x3 dingy beige, dimly lit room, staring at the mirror, but practicing visualization avoidance techniques. I don't need to see this, I whispered to myself. I listened as the sales lady and my friend discussed my sizes. My friend, in muffled tones, "Hey, you think you need a bigger size?"

Sales lady in loud, ear-cringing, hair-pulling squeak, "Words. Words. Words." I don't know what she was saying. I was too busy cringing and pulling my hair.

I stared at my chest. The bulging mountainous shapes protruding out of the bra that I swear should easily be containing these bad girls. The thought of moving into the double alphabet was not something a formerly B/C girl wanted to consider. That might mean a whole new lifestyle . . . cooler clothes, better friends . . . I might have to eat clams and drink French wine . . .

The bra failed me. Unless I was all for resting my chin on my chest, this would not work. I had created the perfect hiding place for Cheerios or, say, a wrench. I slowly opened the door. My friend squeezed her face through the opening. I asked as I stood straight, shoulders raised trying to diminish their size, "What do you think? Do you think I need a bigger size?" Without a word, she turned around.

"Ma'am. We're gonna need a bigger size," her voice was barely above a whisper. Bless her for not advertising my increasing size to the world. Bless her . . .

"We don't carry a DD," the sales woman shouted. SHOUTED.

I know. I should be beaming with pride. But, when every other bra you try on fits like a rubber band around your chest, when you are staring at legs that look like they are about to fall off due to lack of circulation (I really wish some things remained a secret, VICTORIA!) because your thighs have doubled in size and are raw with being too well acquainted with one another, when your arms look like the offspring of your thighs, when a constellation has taken residence on your face and when you are forced to contend with unruly hair with a bad attitude and a personal vendetta--well that leaves you feeling quite . . . unsexy, uncute, and a slightly psychotic (and oddly, hungry).

Where was the glow when I was pregnant with JR? Wait, that was sweat mixed with oil from my overproducing glands. Damn . . .

"We have an E," the sales lady mercilessly continues.

I'm not prone to being embarrassed. Nope. Not at all. But when the girl in the next changing room looks like a teen pageant winner and her husband/boyfriend shares genes with Brad Pitt and when she has to wear a fake belly to try on pregnancy clothes (she seriously will never look pregnant. She'll just appear to have a zit on her belly--I just know it) you just don't get all that excited about increasing bewbage or having it announced to the world (mall, same difference). I swear I heard Teen Barbie and Brad giggle (probably not, but it makes me feel better if I can have a good reason to hate them).

I stuffed them (the bewbs, not Barbie and Brad) back into the stretched out, snagged, sad excuse for a brassiere and headed out. I'd had enough torture for one day.

About a dozen bras, countless maternity clothes (we won't discuss why for some reason I can't fit into my clothes from just two years ago. . . I'm very sensitive and there is not enough chocolate to soothe my pain . . . ) and one obnoxious sales lady later . . . I was done.

So . . . we went to eat. Me, the bewbs deserving of their own zip code, and my friend.

Thought for the day: I wonder if I could claim them as dependents on my taxes?