I start back to work on Tuesday of next week, which means I have to take between then and now and do a serious wardrobe assessment. Or, shall I say, reassessment. Seeing how I’ve now just been able to wear pants that have a button (thanks, C-Section scar!), I’m about to dive into a five-day workweek, which will insist that I wear pants with a button, I’m sure. Hell, pants, period! Thanks to having a summer baby, I spend most of my days in gym shorts. Hot stuff, I know. I’m not sure how my wife keeps her hands off me.
I have a love/hate relationship with my maternity clothes. Well, “love” might be a strong word. Weeks after RR was born, I gleefully stood at my closet doors, throwing my maternity pants, shorts, sweaters, shirts over alternating shoulders while laughing maniacally. When I realized my C-Section scar was going to fully heal sometime around when RR starts driving, I pulled out my maternity shorts in defeat. At least they’re kind of stylish? OK, who am I kidding. They can sort of pass off as a cargo short, though. You know, as long as you don’t wear them with heels.
Long gone are the sweaters, though. No more bright colors, thank god. No, really. Thank. God. There at the end, I hardly recognized myself in the mirror – between the huge belly, sausage fingers, swollen nose/eyes/face, and brightly colored shirts, it’s a good thing I was preoccupied being so uncomfortable, otherwise, I would have just continued posting about my hatred of all things magenta.
In preparation of being an actual contributing, dressed, member of the working world, I bought a few new polo shirts to take the edge off of showering before 5pm every day. I will say that I’m one of the few percentage of people who actually used being pregnant as a method of losing weight. RR, the ultimate parasite. I weigh ten pounds less right now than I did when we got pregnant. Of course, even though there’s less of it, it’s all relocated in different places now, which makes things even more exciting. And by exciting, I mean challenging. And by challenging, I mean awkward, and sometimes hateful.
I’m still the same polo shirt and jeans size, but I have yet to tackle my khakis or work shoes, which have remarkably less leeway. I can’t wear jeans and sandals all the time, I suppose. So this weekend will be one of wardrobe reassessment, and boxing up the maternity clothes to keep (you know, in case we get a crazy idea to do this again), to consign (periwinkle, magenta, I’m looking at you), and give away (huge man-sweaters and poorly made 3/4″ sleeve shirts).
Despite this week’s unusually hot weather, I’ve been wearing my jeans when I leave the house. It’s really the first time since I started to show when I was pregnant that I feel more like myself. I’m still trying to reconcile looking like someone in between a scary dyke (you know, cammo shorts, backwards hat, unshaven legs, permanent scowl), and someone’s mom. I think the in between is actually me, and I’m just waiting for the pendulum to stop swinging from both extremes long enough to get my bearings and go shopping.