Today was our annual Breakfast with Santa, which also happened to fall on THE SAME DAY AS Daver’s company Christmas party (because having a day off in between would be too easy, I guess). We went to the Company Party last year, and I had a minor fit beforehand because, well, the dress I’d bought early on in my pregnancy was not fitting in the boob area.
I had a minor hormonal meltdown, and Daver, being the wonderful soul he is, whisked me off to buy something new about an hour before we had to leave. And then stopped at Krispy Kreme to buy donuts on the way home (this was more for him than me. Couvade, anyone?) and didn’t even mention it when I ate one (despite my whining about being fat).
I vowed to be sexxier and thinner this year, because, well, I am not currently harboring a metabolism-altering parasite. The Universe predictably laughed when I comforted myself by swearing to breastfeed off all those extra pounds from my ass (why my ass felt the need to be pregnant, too, is beyond me. Maybe it was jealous of all the attention fostered upon my belly.), and I have been silently hyperventilating about going to this Christmas party since about October, when it became readily apparent that I wasn’t going to be at my fighting weight this year.
A couple of weeks ago, while at Target, I picked up a pair of pants to wear to this (yes, the invite expressly said “cocktail attire” and I do know what that means, but hey, I was taking an hour and a half train ride to get there. I am not getting on the Metra in a dress), and promptly burst into tears in the fitting room. All of the shirts I grabbed didn’t fit. The pants fit fine, but their size depressed me.
I shakily located Dave and Alex (predictably in the video game aisle), and told them I wouldn’t be attending the party this year. My breathing was ragged and harsh, because I was so upset, that it probably sounded as though I’d taken a couple of pulls off the helium balloons.
It was later that day when I became completely ashamed of myself for feeling so incredibly insecure about how I looked, that I was telling Dave that I wouldn’t do one of the FEW things that he really wants me to do with him. HE doesn’t care that I am a few (read 23.5) pounds heavier. HE doesn’t care that I refused to wear a dress or make any real effort in my appearance tonight. All that he cared about was having me by his side.
And for all of my whining and worrying, it turned out just fine. No one turned me away for wearing pants. No one pointed, laughed, or made any comments whatsoever about how I looked tonight (no, although I was wearing pants, I was NOT wearing a Grateful Dead t-shirt, like I’d wanted to. Even Aunt Becky has her limits for tackiness.). We were only able to stay a short time (babysitters are awesome, but cannot be forced to watch my ickle ones all night long), but instead of being relieved about being able to escape, I was sad that we couldn’t stay longer.
So, Dave, thank you for making me go with you tonight, when you were completely aware of how much I’d have rather stayed home in my pajamas WHERE IT WAS WARM AND DRY AND NOT SNOWING MOUNTAINS.