in which I talk about bra shopping
I woke up yesterday feeling slightly more zesty than usual. I wanted to go out and experience life. I had dozens of ideas, but eventually settled on a lunchtime walk with James. Not the zestiest of ideas, but it felt right. I got myself dressed in a quintessential Michelle outfit: ripped jeans, striped tee, and converse. I was feeling better than I have in awhile. We were ready early, so I decided to kill a little time at the mall across the street from his office. Gracie and I could walk the mall like a retired couple! Speaking of which--we turned to go in a different direction at one point, and an elderly couple thanked me for moving so they could pass us. I felt like that tractor that finally pulls over to the side of the road so all the road ragey people can finally drive faster than 14 mph. Or is that just an Ohio problem?
We had an hour to kill, and if I'm being honest, I was glad we were there because I'm more than ready to say goodbye to my nursing bras. We may still be in the process of weaning, but the nursing bra uni-boob is not going to fly under the bridesmaid dress I have to wear in a few months. The way I feel about those things is the way I felt about my maternity clothes at the end of my pregnancy. I tried on my favorite pre-pregnancy bra to see if I could make a go of it, but it looked and felt like I was trying to smash a watermelon inside an egg shell.
We walked into a store and found the appropriate section after unintentionally walking through the junior dresses where I had bought my high school graduation dress many moons ago. The dresses--they are a lot shorter these days. Gracie pointed at the bras and tried to pull them off the racks while I accidentally banged the stroller into more than one display, earning myself a side-eye from the disgruntled employee hanging up pajamas. I grabbed a few selections, one from here, one from there, taking uneducated guesses at what my size might be. This girl who once cried because she was barely an a-cup is an a-cup no longer and is reaching much farther back on the rack. Be very careful what you wish for, teenage girls.
I tried to grab some basic choices to carry me through until full weanage occurs, when I will then buy myself whatever my little heart desires because I have made it to the promised land, except this promised land will no longer flow with milk and honey. I strollered the babe and the bras to the dressing room, which are now where the media has me a little bit convinced I will die due to the recent overflow of news stories of crazy things happening to women and children. I knew I was safe, but it didn't stop me from constantly searching the ground and door and walls to see if someone was filming me, because I'm nothing if not the slightest bit paranoid at all times. That was always a concern in the back of my mind, but now it's in the forefront, along with how I can eat chocolate and still lose weight and how to time naps around the gardner and his leaf blower. There is also something about dressing rooms that sends Gracie into a tizzy, because whenever we're in one (maybe two times ever) she screams like she's being attacked. Watching her mother try on clothes is literally the worst thing that could ever happen to her. She took her ponytail out and her socks off in revenge for the cruelty exacted upon her in making her sit in her stroller locked in place for 7 minutes. I should've known; she was in a terrible mood since I accidentally woke her from her morning nap.
I shoved an apple cinnamon oatmeal pouch and sippy cup at the flailing toddler-baby. The sippy cup was hurtled at the wall, but she ate the oatmeal until she saw me getting ready to try on the stack of unmentionables I had brought in with us. My state of undress reminded her of what she really wanted. I didn't even have a chance to put anything back on before she lost her cool, and in an effort to not annoy the entire store, I acquiesced before even putting a shirt on. So there I sat, scantily-clad and nursing my child whilst scanning the horizon for camera phones like the captain of a WWI ship scouting for U-boat periscopes (maybe I should stop reading war stories?). Nothing fit and everything felt like wearing a corset after a year plus of flimsy nursing bras, so I speed-strollered us out of there, leaving a trail of bumped and bruised displays and wide-eyed middle-aged women on the sidelines. We need to find a way to buy bras online and guarantee a good fit. It's 2016!
I may still be rocking the uni-boob, but I impulse-bought this shirt during naptime, so I guess you could say I won in the end.