On Saturday night, I was headed to the city for a close friend’s 40th birthday dinner.
Time allotted to get ready: 15 minutes
Time actually needed to get ready: 55 minutes
Major stumbling block: The jeans.
After trying on and discarding a variety of pregnancy jeans in a heap, I decided to wear a pair of my pre-pregnancy jeans with those belly bands that allow you to keep the zipper open. After much tugging to get them on, I was fairly satisfied with my reflection in the mirror and decided to get the hell out the door before I changed my mind.
I kissed my girls, said goodbye to the sitter and then attempted to get in the car.
And that’s where things didn’t quite work out for me.
Because I couldn’t sit down. At least not without the zipper digging into my skin like a razor blade and the thighs of the jeans cutting off all circulation to my upper body, which doesn’t seem ideal.
Could I bear this pain for the 45 minute car ride and the rest of the evening? Could I somehow leisurely stand throughout an entire dinner at Il Buco without being pegged the weird, awkward girl by other party goers?
So I went back into the house and changed my pants. Because it’s ridiculous to try to wear pre-pregnancy jeans when you’re 27 weeks pregnant. At least for me. I blame Heidi Klum. I’ve been watching her on “Project Runway” in all her stiletto wearing, fashionista pregnancy glory, and I think I got a bit carried away. I am once again reminded that I am indeed not Heidi Klum.
Speaking of jeans, we were on our way to church on Easter morning when my husband came down the stairs wearing denim.
“Is that what you’re wearing? Jeans?” I asked.
“Yes. They’re my good jeans. And I’m wearing a sport coat.” (To my husband’s credit, he actually looked very good but still… JEANS?! TO CHURCH?!)
“I just don’t think jeans are appropriate for church. I promise you, no one will be wearing jeans,” I explained.
My husband changed.
And then at church, sometime between the flowering of the cross and the children’s choir performance, he had the time to count the number of men wearing jeans.
In case you’re wondering.
And my husband insists, the jeans he was going to wear were nicer than all of theirs.