This is NOT going to end well.

That's how I started out my lunch break, in a dressing room, at Marshalls.  I regrettably looked at my semi-naked self in the mirror, sighed a large sigh and just knew that trying on dresses and swimsuits at 7 months pregnant, was not going to end with a snow white sequence where birds are chirping and 7 little men clean up and compliment you on your cooking skills.  It was not going to end well.  And it didn't.

I can't find a lot of pregnant clothes I like, they are for pregnant people, is the first problem.  I still think of myself as a non-pregnant person, but just a little larger (ok, a LOT larger) on the scale with a Santa Claus belly.  No, I don't laugh jolly and I certainly don't giggle when you poke my pillsbury belly, I'll slap your face so quickly and so hard you won't know if it was me or if it was a figment on your imagination it was so supersonic fast, it would be like I stopped the time space continuim for just a moment to recoil your poking and plunge my open palm across your face.

One of my selfish reasons as to having a baby in the summer was:

1)  Summer pool parties.

and

2)  Swimming while pregnant.

I clearly remember the weight of Joseph on my back and body and wanting a large tub to float in.  Zero gravity sensation.  I can't think of another thing more blissful than this.  Other than eating mini eggs while getting a pedicure and a massage.....

So off I go, grab a few dresses, a few swim suits and undress to my unmentionables.  My unmentionables at this moment consist of the largest pair of knickers you have quite possibly ever seen and a pair of earrings.  I tell myself:  "You're pregnant, not fat, it's a time where you don't have to look at yourself in the mirror and hold back the VURP (vomit burp) you got at seeing yourself nekkid, accept what is there, you're only going to get bigger than you can work out after the baby and get back to a size you wish you were but haven't been since you were 12, but you still always think that you can get there..."

It didn't really help.

Let's just skip right ahead to the part where my burgeoning baby bump was the least of my worries and my large thunder thighs and tree trunk kankles were really the problem areas in getting things to fit.  And by fit, I mean, squeezed over my body like shrink wrap.

Another large sigh and a little red eyed and possibly a tear or two working it's way to my tear duct and I catch a glimpse of my double turned triple chin, out of my peripherals.

I've lost it.

My hair even looks bad today.

I'm 45 minutes into my lunch break and alone, in a 20 person stall dressing room, I slowly fall down a wall to a corner in my stall, grab my knees as close as I can to myself (which is at least 50 yards away with my stomach in between) and rock myself slowly back and forth, fighting back the kind of snot you get when you cry that doesn't clog up but gets all drippy and is clear and no matter how many tissues you have, it's still not enough.

Pull it together, Price.  I tell myself.  Not happening.  If I don't stop now I have at least 10 minutes before I can dry up and NOT look like I've been crying in the dressing room as I hand back my clothing items to the check in lady. 

HOT TIP:10-15 minutes is the actual time a girl has between seriously stopping crying and kinda sort of NOT looking like you've just been crying.  That is at it's best.  For faster results, use a damp cold wash cloth over your puffy eye area.

I lost myself for a little while in the mirror also.  Staring, gasping, emotions ranging from horrified, to disappointed to disgust, to content.  (I started to affectionately rub my little Buddha belly round and round and that was actually very comforting... note to self for next time I have emotional breakdown in a public changing room....)

So, one thing leads to another, and 1 hour and 38 minutes later, I move out of the place I've temporarily set up living and grab the one dress that made me feel comfortable,  (Editors Note: I did not say, feel good, feel not fat, feel etc... just FEEL COMFORTABLE is what I ended up with..) purchase the item, and get back to work.

Sit at my desk.  Eat a bag of mini eggs and feel much better.

Feeling gross is not fun, and knowing, KNOWING that it is just going to get WORSE, really isn't helping my emotional and mental stability.  Thank god I have this outlet and thank goodness I have Mr. Price.  Joseph ran into our bathroom where I was having a post traumatic stress event-post traumatic breakdown, again, and said "Mommy, you aren't fat, you're beautiful.."  "Daddy, told me to say that to you, you are also pretty... wait.. Daddy, what did I need to say to mommy again?.." 

I decided that laughing hysterically was much better than sobbing away my hormone driven afternoon.

Editors note (again):  I largely INDULGE the actual events and happenings in this post, but, I can admit that if it doesn't actually happen the way I wrote it, it's all going on in my head, as described, and it's pretty much exactly how us girls realize events could unfold.  Especially in a dressing room.