I am a shopper by nature. Let me loose in a store and I will find 100,000 things I have to have but just didn’t know it yet, like a Snuggie for my dog. Pre-pregnancy I was sure that the minute I found out I was pregnant I would be decked out in darling maternity: jeans, tops, dresses, underwear, bras, socks and haircuts (you know, the mom ‘do) before the pee-stick dried. But that is just not happening. My energy level barely allows me to grab an over-sized sweatshirt from the closet to sit on the couch, let alone drive an HOUR to the nearest maternity store to shop. But during month two, one thing became apparent, even if there wasn’t a “want” to shop, there was definitely a “need” to shop…for bras.
Now, my whole life I have always had the same bra shopping experiences. I have never been in the “normal” bra section. If it wasn’t: large enough to save a fighter jet from crashing, shaped like a cone or sold in a dusty box, it just wasn’t going to fit. But, here I was in maternity bras. This was a whole new ballgame. This was where everyone was top heavy and no one was forced to shop on the bottom shelf that’s full of spiders and hatred.
So, off I went with husband in tow. He “volunteered” to come along with the promise that he got to get two presents for himself if he behaved in the maternity store. I was on the mission to get bras and a couple fall sweaters, since it would be a while until I ventured the hour to the mall again.
First, we get to the mall and the only parking available is on the opposite side from our destination store. Not a big deal, a little exercise never hurt anyone and after we were done shopping we could enjoy a leisurely lunch in the food court.
Before I even hit the double doors I was sweating and realizing that the bag of beef jerky I ate on the ride just wasn’t going to cut the mustard. But I am a woman and women do NOT try on clothes after eating a meal, especially a pregnancy-sized meal. So, I pushed on.
By the time I sweatily waddled to Motherhood Maternity I was feeling regret seeping in. But, I was still over-eager to finally purchase a bra right along side all other members of society. A sales rep eagerly met me at the door and I boomed, “I’m pregnant and need a bra!” Off we headed to the wall ‘o bras where she whipped out a tape measure. This normally would send a tingle of terror down my spine but I was in the loop now. This was my time to shine. She wrapped that measure through my moist armpits and…giggled.
“I’m sorry, we don’t have this size here,” she says, “You might want to try the store across the street that specializes in this size.” She couldn’t even utter the number/letter combination! Was I hitting the Greek alphabet at this point? Am I diseased? Is this like a secretive form of elephantiasis?
Immediately feeling like I time-lapsed back into the seventh grade, I just thanked the twit for her time and began my shopping shuffle looking for sweaters. But by this time I had exhausted every nutritional ounce out of that beef jerky and I needed food NOW. This left me no choice but to leave my husband in the dust and speed-walk to the nearest form of sustenance. I spent the next 45 minutes stuffing my face so feverishly full of bagel dogs and egg rolls that I couldn’t even consider more shopping. But, I made myself go to the “special bra store” grab the nearest two parachutes and fall immediately asleep in the car. No sweaters, no acceptance, just another day in the life…