I'm potentially about to spend $225 on one pair of jeans and this just after depriving myself of a four-dollar latte this morning, I decide I better strap it on. I center the pillow and secure the strap. I pull my sweatshirt down over it and stand there in my underwear and white ankle socks. I fold my hands on the front of my shirt and shift to the side to observe the roundness. I wonder if the pillow is too high or too low. I bet the salesgirl would love to rescue me right about now, juice in hand, but I just pull on a pair of jeans.
There is a wide, navy blue band where the button and zipper should be. Hmmm. I shimmy them up over the pillow and my belly squashes under it. For some reason I don't think my real belly is going to cooperate like this pillow—this shit is lame. I release the straps and hear a quick scratching from the Velcro. I scoot to the side and hold the elastic band out as far as it will go. This is ridiculous. I can't spend $225 on a pair of pants. What the hell is wrong with me? I clip the jeans back on their hanger and leave them hanging on the hook on the door. Okay, back to the budget. Time to hit up the Liz Lange section at Target, I think as I step into my yoga pants and dance them up my legs. I hear the woman in the room next to me call out, "Does this make me look fat, hon?"
"You're pregnant and beautiful, dear," answers a hefty voice.
They sound like the perfect couple and I bet he's going to pay for her dress with his platinum AmEx and then they'll retire to their duplex on the Upper West Side, where the nursery is half-done, spotted with eggshell on one wall and mint green on the other, as they're still not sure what works best. He'll teach his son how to play baseball in Central Park. Which gets me thinking about my kid. Not only, by some cosmic miracle, do I need to financially provide for her, I'm going to have to rear her as a mom and a dad. And if the sonogram technician is correct and her is indeed a he, then I'm going to have to learn how to throw a football and pitch a tent to boot. Part of me wants to live in this tiny dressing room until everyone leaves the store.
