Buying clothes

Mr. Forty has covered much of the recent good news. He stays up later than me and posts things. Must be nice to be able to say up late. And post things. And have a penis.

I digress.

The ultrasound was all the cute you can hope for out of a baby shaped blob on a black and white monitor. It also gave me the confidence I needed to go shopping. I think I’ve been subconsciously a little resistant to buy clothes until I knew we were okay.  And the genetic tests came back (thanks Maternit 21) and we are having a healthy baby boy who (according the ultrasound) has really cute feet. Yay!

Today Mr. Forty was a good sport and went to the pregnant lady store with me.

Now let me explain how I shop…

About once a year I call up my nice shopping lady at a department store that I like and I say, “Hi nice shopping lady, I need new clothes for work/play/clogging/etc.” Nice shopping lady sets up a time, I show up, she gives me a glass (or two) of wine, and I try on a room full of pre-selected clothes. I decide what I like, nice shopping lady gets them altered for me (as I am Hobbit sized), and I give her a lot of money.

Over time I realize I actually spend less this way than I did with the more traditional buying method I had used previously. This usually involved going for margaritas with girlfriends and having them talk me into clothes that, upon more sober consideration, made me look like a cheap Russian whore.

So now I usually get 6 or 8 “outfits” a year, and supplement with special occasion purchases. I have a weakness for silly shirts on the internet and I’m not above buying dresses on Mod Cloth. That’s shopping. That’s all I’ll do.

Buying maternity clothes had me about as excited as the moment when I learned what meconium was. I hate shopping. Shopping for clothes that I’ll wear for 8 months (I’m figuring two months or so afterwards) tops – that just pisses me off. I have clothes from college that I still wear religiously. Maternity clothes are overpriced, they aren’t very well made, and they have very little “personality.”

I dress kinda… quirky? Different? Not like everybody else. Maternity clothes have a terrible generic quality. And stripes? What the fuck is with all the stripes in maternity wear. Look, I have never worn stripes.  I wouldn’t have considered them before I looked like I slammed an entire keg of Natty Light and washed it down with a enchilada el grande. Why in sweet Virgin Mary’s good name would I throw stripes on my current shape? I don’t look awkward enough? Fuck you maternity designers. Fuck. You.

I pondered going the consignment route, but again, I’m hobbit sized, and I don’t want to wait two weeks to get everything altered (to what size for that matter) and end up paying as much as I would for retail.

I also have to stop wearing yoga pants to work, for real, I’m a professional woman, I run a very successful team, I need to not look like a slightly disheveled college student. My intern is out dressing me. I need clothes NOW.

All this taken into consideration, the Mr. showed amazing support and went to the UNIVERSE OF MOTHERHOOD or whatever it’s called at the mall. He sat quietly live tweeting while I flew threw the store picking the least offensive items, quickly trying them on, and using the “7th Months Pad” to see just how much of a milk cow I will look in these clothes in a few months.

I did okay. I got several dresses for work, a couple of outfits to wear for everything else, and a tub of creme to rub on my belly and boobs so I don’t get the map of the London Underground on my torso.

I’m done. Instead of wine, I got apple juice. Instead of nice shopping lady, I had nice retail helper lady who walked by occasionally and said, “That’s cute,” “The tie goes in the back.” “Sure you don’t want a sweater with horizontal stripes?”

Hopefully, I’m done. Maybe a t-shirt here and there – that’s it. I can’t lose another 90-minutes of my life like that again.