So what shall we talk about today?
How fraudulent one feels to enter a maternity clothing store when one is most definitely not yet showing?
How I've filtered my anxiety triggers down to the lowest common denominator, only to find that I am one of those boringly trite people who should probably discuss her traumatic teenage years in therapy? And while I'm actually quite thrilled to feel like I know From Whence It Came, I am so terribly disappointed in my ordinary averageness.
How I'm supposed to have outsourced my entire job by Friday, yet no one returns my frantic emails asking if it is really so?
How deeply irrationally terrified I am of getting on an airplane and flying into London, aka where the terrorists are figuring out how to use Clinique moisturizer to blow up planes?
How much I love Friday Night Lights? How good the past two episodes of Veronica Mars have been? How I haven't been able to catch up on my television shows because Phillip always wants to play Guitar Hero?
I know. DULL AS DIRT. You'd think that if someone was going to write about her life on the internet, the least she could do is make it interesting. Sorry.
Anyway. I'll be 15 weeks tomorrow. Which seems... I don't know. Important? Kind of like: Aha! I have conquered the first trimester! I'm pregnant enough to know that the parasite that has hijacked my body actually looks like a baby now, if only a jumbo shrimp-sized baby, but not pregnant enough to have some nice man give up his seat for me on the bus, or to walk into a maternity clothing store and not have the salesgirls wonder what I'm doing there. And to be perfectly clear, I wasn't there to buy clothes, I was there to buy black tights that might not make me feel like I'm being lasered in half by David Copperfield. I even felt compelled to make excuses for myself when I was at the register. "I'm not really showing quite yet," I laughed nonchalantly, "but my other tights are just so uncomfortable! Ha! Ha!" (FYI: there is no discernible difference between regular tights and maternity tights. Except seventeen nonrefundable dollars.) Mostly I am just FAT. I bought a pair of maternity jeans (because even though most of my jeans still fit, I can't stand anything that feels binding around my stomach) and because they are dirt cheap and crappy maternity jeans, I can't wear them unless they're held up by my bella band. (God bless the bella band.) People in the know have told me to invest in a pricey pair of maternity jeans, because I will live in them and it will be worth it, but I just don't feel like I can do that before I'm even SHOWING. Gah. I did not realize the how-to-dress-myself part would be so difficult.
Also, how come all the pants are too big, but the tops are so tight and low? My already ample waistline may be expanding, but that doesn't mean I want to start drawing all the attention to my cleavage, thank you very much.
And instead of concentrating on any number of tasks I actually have to get done before we leave (in three days! On Sunday! Whee!) I am stressing about our Christmas party, of all things. The party to which we invite pretty much everyone we know, even though our house can hold four and a half people, and the party that will most likely coincide with everyone's work party and other cooler people's parties and only four and a half people will end up coming anyway. Which should be fine, I guess, since I have neither the energy nor the time nor the mental capacity to make the gazillion Christmas cookies I usually kill myself baking every year, just so I can lay them out at the party and wonder why people aren't eating them. Besides, if I can't drink wine, no one should be drinking wine.
Someone obviously need to chill herself the heck out and go shopping with her mother at the German Christmas markets already, don't you think? THREE MORE DAYS.