Insult to Injury

I've never been too keen on having to buy clothing but in the last few years the chore has gotten even worse; ever since the teeny-bopper-Britney-Spears-look-a-like-contest has spilled over into office wear and what passes for "jeans" in the women's section of the department stores I try to breeze through. I've gotten away with bypassing the women's sections all together for many things, and going for the men's apparel which, thank god, doesn't bend with the fashion wind, but now that I am confined to the maternity ward my choices have gotten very, very narrow. With this ever diminishing choice of clothing has come the following two observations:

1) All pregnant women are ten feet tall.
2) All pregnant women aspire to look like Britney Spears. No, not this one. This one.

I am so out of it. Plus, I'm way too short.

Still I've tried to make the best of it, buying clothing which ill-fit me when I was normal proportions and now is even worse, and buying iron-on hemming material because there is no way I am wasting my time sewing anything on these monstrosities. I had a moment of pause as I contemplated the damage I might do by ironing two different height cuffs by accident; then shrugged and remembered that whatever I did was bound to be better than my recent alternative: balled up pieces of cloth held up by paper clips.

I must be looking a lot younger though, in my new Britney Spears style and roughly hemmed jeans; today I was carded at the checkout counter.

For non-alcoholic beer. I can't win.