I drove all the way — yes, all 12 miles — to Sherman Oaks today for my Maternity Clothes Shopping Premiere, because the only maternity clothes available in West Hollywood are $100 fitted tees announcing “My lovely baby bump” with the requisite arrow splashed out in rhinestones. And I am just not precious (or rich) enough for that kind of t-shirt. Even though my body is not yet in prime maternity wardrobe shape — onlookers are more likely to assume I’m ready to give birth to a six-pack of Heineken than a bouncing baby girl at this point in my pregnancy — I just feel like I need to have those maternity pieces in my closet for that moment the button on my regular jeans finally says, “GIVE IT UP ALREADY, WOMAN!” and pops off in search of a less stressful life of unemployment under my bed.
Not to mention I desperately wanted to walk around the mall with my A Pea in the Pod shopping bag, so that passersby could finally make the connection that I am 18 weeks pregnant with child, and not with beer. Because, you know, I’m sure EVERYBODY IN THE WORLD is wondering. Yes, it’s true. Everybody.
‘Round and ’round I went in that darn shopping mall parking lot looking for a space, blindly following an army of other drivers who steadfastly REFUSED to park on the second or third levels. ‘Cause heaven forbid our lazy butts should have to walk more than ten steps to the mall entrance in the practically sweltering (*AHEM*) 70-degree L.A. weather. After a while, The Search almost become a competition. Like, if THOSE drivers aren’t willing to park in the second-tier spaces, heck if I will either!
Then I saw it. It beckoned to me. But did I dare? I couldn’t tear my eyes away:
I know, I know… those spots are meant for, like, really pregnant chicks. Really, really. As in, so-pregnant-they-could-end up-delivering-in-front-of-the-Wetzel’s-Pretzels-stand-pregnant (SPTCEUDIFOTWPSP). And yet, I felt like I’d paid my pregnant lady dues. I was so nauseous during my first trimester, a mere whiff of Hubba Bubba brought me to my knees. My breasts feel like water balloons. I now suffer from a lovely thing called pregnancy rhinitis, which gives me a good, oh, two-to-three hours of sleep a night. I AM A ZOMBIE LADY WITH WATER BALLOON BOOBIES BECAUSE OF THIS BABY, DAMMIT! DO I NOT DESERVE THE SAME PARKING SPACE RIGHTS AS A WADDLING NINE-MONTH-PREGNANT LADY WHO, I MIGHT ADD, IS NOT EVEN USING THIS SPACE RIGHT NOW?!
You’re right. I don’t. But I took it, anyway.
Appalled by my behavior? You’ll be happy to know that not even fifteen minutes later I was using the restroom facilities — when am I not these days? — when a fellow bathroom goer slammed her stall door, causing my hastily locked door to FLY WIDE OPEN and expose part of my fat pregnant belly and unmentionables (I was wearing a dress, thankyouverymuch) to a line of unimpressed ladies waiting outside.
Yes, I’m sure they assumed it was a beer gut. And, yes, Karma is still cackling.
But at least I only had to walk ten steps. Suckas!
Originally published on February 26, 2009