Don’t Make Me Say It

This past weekend I had to make a run to Target.   If you don’t know already, I have banned myself from Target as part of our household budget crisis.   I’m only allowed to go now if I bring a sponsor with me to keep me from trafficking the shoes and baby departments.   But this weekend, I needed to go and I needed to go by myself.   I had to buy things.   Things that no one should have to buy in front of other people.

When I got home from my Target excursion, Chris jumped all over me.   Why had I gone?   What was in my bag?   How much had I spent?   Did I count to ten before making the purchase (another part of my Target detox process)?   And that’s when I flipped out.

“I don’t have to justify these things to you!   Its none of your business!” and I stormed off to my bedroom.

In hindsight, I probably could have chosen my words more carefully and spoken more kindly, but I was backed into a corner, and when that happens I’m going to come out swinging.   Just like Tanya Harding.

It was hard enough for me to go to Target that morning anyway.   I didn’t want to buy these things anymore than you WANTED me to buy them, so don’t make it harder by asking me to justify unpleasant purchases to you.   Don’t make me admit out loud that the reason I had to go to Target was because I have become so incredibly huge in the past few weeks that I had to purchase actual tools to help me mold myself into something resembling a woman.

Don’t make me explain to you that my chest has become so large that I now need a black market bra and duct tape to keep it in check.   Or that I had to buy industrial strength cellulite lotion because the back of my legs are startling to curdle.   Don’t make me justify spending $10.00 on a new maternity camisole that I must wear under all my clothes, every day, in order to keep my belly button from poking someone’s eye out.   Don’t make me admit to you that I had to buy yet ANOTHER pair of even LARGER pants because my ass seems to think that it, too, is growing a small person.

Just don’t make me say these things.   No woman wants to admit these things – especially to her husband.   Just let me buy them in peace and stash the bag in the back of my closet like a normal person.   Let me keep pretending that I at least resemble the person I was before this kindergardner started expanding inside of my stomach.

Don’t make me tell you about all the secret things it takes to make a pregnant woman look somewhat normal.   Just don’t make me say it.

…cause that would be really embarrassing.