On Thursday Amelia and I stopped by Kmart so that I could pick her up a cheap alarm clock (in the hopes she will stay in bed until she sees that it’s 7am), more beans for our sad old, limp bean bag and some pajamas ready to wash and pack in my hospital bag. There was great success to be had with a cheap pink shiny alarm clock and the bag of beans but no luck in the pj department. I did, however, find two long sleeved t-shirts that looked like they would cover my ever-growing belly. I took them into the fitting rooms with Amelia and tried them on. I hummed and haahed, and Amelia told me that I looked beautiful in both of them. I was easily convinced, mostly because I was happy that both covered right over my belly and didn’t leave a great gaping bare midriff which all my other maternity clothes are now doing. Plus, both were on sale for about $15 each so how much more perfect can I hope for at 8 months pregnant? At this point in my life my 100% in love theory (which has been working quite excellently these past two years) has gone out the window.
I got home and tried the first one on for Big-P and he raised one eyebrow and said “Trassssheee“. And, oh my gawd, he was so right, I looked down at my top and saw that it was pure trash. I am 8 months pregnant wearing a ripped neckline t-shirt adorned with a huge, sparkling silver trash-goth design screen print stretching with great exaggeration across my stomach. What was I thinking? Big-P is just reiterating it for me now saying “it’s more like trash meets tragic – trashic! No, not ‘tres chic’, TRASHIC.” Yes, I think I got it the first time.
And then I tried on the other and looked at myself in the mirror again and realised that it looked even worse. This t-shirt, according to the label, is actually 6 sizes too big for me. I did see this when I was trying it on, but decided that I could get away with it because it covered my belly… and while tent-like no one is going to care because they will be too busy looking in fear and horror at my belly which is getting incredibly huge and watermellon shaped but is at least now covered. But as I stood in our room – away from the seductive glitz and glamour and fluorescent lighting of the Kmart fitting rooms – I looked at the rest of my body in it and could hardly believe how ridiculous it looked. It was a great, grey flapping mess. Maybe, just perhaps, the taste of a three year and a half year old and a highly hormonal mother in a badly lit change room is not always to be trusted. Thank goodness for Kmart’s return policy!
Yesterday I went to the hair dressers and asked for a pretty tame hairstyle with a non-adventurous but flattering colour of dark chocolate all-over tint with a couple of subtle reddy splices to break-up the front a bit. Three hours later I looked like this:
Which I really wasn’t expecting. Clearly the hair stylists were not expecting it either. So while even I had to admit that it was better than what I had three hours earlier, it was quite purple, and I am really just not a purple person. Not even close. Not even in my most goth moments 15 years ago did I entertain purple. It kind of makes me look quite green. Although my brain was slightly addled from lack of food and 3 hours of reading New Idea and Who Magazines, I knew I was not 100% in love with this at all. For the first time ever in my life of visiting hair salons I asked them to change it. Half an hour later again I waddled out of the salon with toned down reddy-pink streaks and a bag of stuff to take back to Kmart.
So while 100% love is hard to find with an unfamiliar body shape and also hard to justify (with clothing anyway) when there is only 6 weeks (or so) of big-belly-living to go I think it might be a start to try and not collapse completely into a vortex of fashion crimes. I think those ratty old track-pants and some of Big-P’s old t-shirts and my cardigans and hoodies that don’t quite do up will continue to suffice for the time being.