Out of nowhere, it was 80 degrees today. Which is nice, and all except for two things: 1) it really, really, really makes me want to sit outside and drink a lot of beer; and 2) I have no warm weather clothes.

(I have been *freezing* for this entire pregnancy, until today. Today, I feel like I’m roasting alive. Gotta love the pregnant temperature shifts.)

In fact, I have two pairs of jeans and three maternity t-shirts (and three other shirts that I can still wear, at least around the house), and that’s my entire wearable wardrobe right now.

So I went to the mall. Well, I went to get pho for lunch, and the mall is on the way. So I broke down and went to a maternity store in an attempt to find lighter clothes.

Sidenote: longtime readers of this blog (all loyal and bored three of you) will remember that I have weight issues. Really, really bad weight issues. Everyone in my family has them, in fact, but I can only vouch for myself: they are incredibly destructive, depressing, and insidious.  I’ve always had these issues, and while I can do the feminist all-bodies-are-beautiful talk blindfolded and drunk, I never believe it when I’m talking to myself. So–three years ago I quit smoking and discovered  I had hypothyroidism (not at exactly the same time, but close), and I gained 35 pounds. Then, last year, I did Weight Watchers, and I lost 35 pounds. And I felt good about myself again, shamefully.

And then I got pregnant.

You know, both of my sisters–who are TINY and who both share my body image/eating/weight issues–both of them gained 60 pounds with each of their pregnancies. And honestly, it’s looking like I’m going to follow in those footsteps.

Because at the store today? Dudes, Nothing. Fits. “Buy your pre-pregnancy size,” my fat ass.

It’s not the belly. I *like* the belly. It’s the weight in my ass, legs, arms, and face that I’m having the problem with.

I’m thrilled that the baby is growing like he should, and I’m happy that there is certainly no danger of malnourishing him. But for fuck’s sake, I’m pretty sure I’m close to where I was at, weight-wise, before Weight Watchers, and I still have 16 weeks to go.

Fucking hell.

Anyway. Shallow, boring, whiny. Sorry about that. And I did get a pair of shorts, regardless (though I doubt they’ll fit all the way through the next four months).

GB keeps telling me not to think about it, that the baby is growing and that’s the important thing, that this is all for a good cause. And I kind of believe that (though stay tuned for a post soon about my Huge! Raging! Ambivalence! about becoming a parent). But do I *actually* believe it? Hell no.

This whole thing makes me want to drink heavily. Ah, the irony.

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