The Incredible Blubbering Mess That Means that Progress is Being Made…. And Isn’t

AKA–Why I hate shopping.  Again.

 My wonderful Daddy gave me a gift card to JCPenny this year for Christmas at our early celebration.  I’ve noticed in recent days that my favorite jeans are starting to not fit as a result of my burgeoning belly, and as such, something needed to be done.  Since funds are tight this Christmas Season, I didn’t want to tap into our own funds to do something about it, so this gift card seemed just the thing to help us out.

Yesterday, we decided to head to our largest local shopping center to take care of some Little Miss Christmas Shopping and other odds and ends, including outfitting the burgeoning belly.  So….  after a quick stop at Target (oh, store that I love!), we jetted over to JCPenny to find just the thing to buy with our wonderful card.

I found the maternity aisle tucked away in a corner of the store, and I began the task of finding things to try on.  I took three such maternity items back to the dressing rooms to do the trying.

I put them on.  I looked in the mirror.  I winced.  The maternity clothes that I was wearing did not fit my only 4.5 months pregnant body. 

Now, maybe I was thinking wishful about the sizes.  Maybe I was, but here’s the thing.  I am fluffy enough to be relegated to the “Women’s section” of most stores….  But…..  apparently most stores don’t sell “Women’s section” type maternity clothing.

So…  So….  I went to the Women’s section–which, by the way, I found very unappealing.  I mean really…  Just because I’m fluffy doesn’t mean I want to dress like an old woman.  It really doesn’t.  I tried on a couple of non-maternity things that weren’t *too* awful, but decided they weren’t stretchy enough to accommodate the belly OR that they were TOO BIG (thank God for that) to accommodate my current frame without falling around my ankles–Don’t even try to picture that.

Well folks…  I am pregnant.  And that means I am hormonal.  And that means….  That I cry.  Very easily.  So when faced with a situation such as not even being able to fit into the largest available sizes in the maternity section, you better believe there’s going to be a puddle of Val blubbering.  So I held it together until Husband and Little Miss returned.  I held it together most of the way out of the store.  And then….  Well then there was no more holding.

There was only sobbing.  Messy, snotty, disgusting, feeling sorry for my fat self, sobbing.  And it went on and on and on….  And poor Husband…  well, he didn’t know what to do with me.  So he quickly moved the van to the Outer Mongolia regions of the parking lot, and waited calmly for me to tell him what was wrong.

So as I’m sitting there, crying in my over-abundant bowl of cheerios, it occurs to me:  This is the first time I’ve cried–really busted loose-lost it-snot rolling out of my nose-bawled–about anything other than cancer or death, in probably two years.

“Heh” I cackle (and then of course I snuffle-snort).  “I guess this means I’m making progress.”

Next immediate thought:  I wish progress didn’t make me feel so fat and ugly.

(BTW–I fixed the problem by shopping online, later that day.  Apparently “Women’s Sizes Women” must tuck themselves away to shop if they find themselves “In the family way” before dropping down into the acceptable clothes sizes.  Lesson learned.  Let’s move on.)

Then of course came the rest of the evening….  Where after that tremendous breaking lose of tears I was even closer to the edge of hysteria than normal.  This is where the not so much progress part of things was revealed.

Because my friends, pregnant+hormonal+edgy from bawling once already Val lost it several more times.  These times about Mom, and for all of the stupidest reasons you couldn’t even imagine. 

Consider:

  • Throwing away shampoo bottles that are five years old.   Yes….  That’s right, while sorting through our bathroom cabinet, trying to downsize, we came across two bottle of “Vavoom” shampoo that Mom had given to me because she had too many of her own to use.  Husband asked if we should toss them.  I said yes…..  And then bawled.  He looked at me curiously–“They were Moooooom’s!”
  • Deciding NOT to throw away hand-cream.  This was hand-cream that I toted back with me from Illinois.  This was hand-cream that I saw my Mom use during the last weeks of her life.  This was hand-cream that I can still picture her hands in.  This is….  hand-cream that I can put my hands in and know that I am touching something that still might have some of her skin-cells on it.  Lousy, freaking hand-cream.  Pathetic?  Incredibly so.  Yes….  More bawling commenced
  • Husband flushing expiredmedicine down the toilet.  As I said, we were overhauling the closet here.  It needed to be done.  Husband was doing it.  But….  as he walked back and flushed, and walked back and flushed, I saw not our bathroom, not my husband, but my Dad’s bathroom and a hospice nurse, and me….  Flushing down one heavy-duty prescription medicine at a time.  Pain meds, nausea meds, potassium pills–some of which cost almost $50 a pill by the way, and all of them Mom’s.  The nurse watching over me so that she could verify that it was all gone, and we weren’t going to go out and sell Zofran and Vicodin and Morphine on the black market to make some plunder and profit out of the hospice deal (what a sick thought).  I saw that scene.  I saw the house… in those early hours of the morning.  Felt the darkness of the world just hours after my Mom died….  and yes there were more tears. 

And so…  maybe I haven’t made so much progress. 

And then again, maybe I’m just hormonal.

Advertisements

3 thoughts on “The Incredible Blubbering Mess That Means that Progress is Being Made…. And Isn’t

  1. *HUG* I understand about the clothes thing… though I am at the other end of it… postpartum. And a *HUG* for the stuff I don’t understand, but can still love you through.

  2. Or maybe you are just on your journey. Don’t surmise. Now is time to just experience it. It sucks. It will suck for awhile. Not fun, but realistic. Just let it be what it is and don’t try to excuse it or explain it away. You bet your sweet aunt sue you are hormonal. You are also a daughter grieving.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s