Yesterday I bought a gorgeous vintage silk wedding dress at a thrift store, for the express purpose of dying and altering it and turning it into a costume for Juliet. Because basketball season is practically over and thus we usher in the beginning of theatre season at our school, and this year I have to get all the costumes made before my due date, so of course we're doing Romeo and Juliet. With fancy Rennaisance-y costumes for every.single.student.
(which I'm actually totally psyched about making because of I'm crazy)
So I was pretty delighted to find this dress, and the lady at the store had to come over and price it for me because it wasn't priced, and it was under fifty dollars, so I was even more delighted.
And then I stepped outside of my body for a second and realized exactly how the situation looked. I'm what, seven months pregnant? Wearing maternity jeans and a black t-shirt that strains to cover my belly, hair tossed into a messy braid to get it out of the way for a morning of thrift-store shopping. And ecstatically buying a yellowed wedding gown at a bargain price.
Well, would you have been able to resist?
I held the dress out critically, examining the delicate, corseted waistline and then my own swollen stomach.
"Hmmm, I think it'll fit okay, don't you? Time's running out!"
"Ummm, ahh, it's a very pretty dress...very traditional..." She floundered, poor lady.
I guess I know where not to go for helpful fashion advice. Stacy and Clinton she was not!
This is the other, evil side of the pregnant ladies in public coin. We will have our revenge, you see, for all the stranger-belly-pats and the you-know-what-causes-thats. By the third pregnancy we are not only immune to public obnoxiousness, but we have turned it back around on everyone.