Retail therapy is suddenly less therapeutic

Have you ever done this?

Had a few hours to yourself and decided to seize this rare opportunity to hit a sale at your favorite shop as you will be in desperate need of work clothes in a few months. Then, upon entering said store, grabbed a million items, giddy that you had hours to try on outfits (you know, instead of the rushed few minutes in between rescuing a freedom-loving baby from his stroller prison and placating your bored preschooler by promising her a treat if she would just please, for the love of baby jeebus, let you try on one fucking pair of jeans).

In the midst of your shopping high, were you so delusional that you only grabbed Mediums because while they were held in front of your body they looked totally freaking HUGE? Surely, they will hang off of your body as though you hadn’t eaten in weeks - only to be confronted with the sad reality that is wrestling your child-bearing-ravaged body into this tiny shell of fabric. Despite your heroic attempts to “suck it in”, no amount of bodily contortion will keep you from looking like a ridiculous love-child of a sausage and the Michelin Man.

Looking at your reflection in the all-too-accurate mirrors, did these thoughts ever cross your mind?
-Thank gawd there are no cameras in this change room. There are NO cameras, right? Because otherwise there would be a witness to my comical attempt to get this shirt off without ripping any seams. A witness to my terrified expression as I realize my arms are pinned and useless and that I may have to cry out for a sales woman to bring the jaws of life to rescue me.

-No mother should ever, ever look at her back view in the mirror, unless she’s trying to induce tears. Why, hello demonic Back Fat! Are you having a good time at the party underneath my bra and at the top of my waistline? Bastard.

-It seems as though my belly is far too loyal and ignored my impassioned firing of it months ago. It has also hired on 1000 of its closest friends to hang out on my back.

-Why, why, why does every shirt here either look like it’s pseudo maternity wear, or contain enough spandex in it to highlight every surprising pocket of fat? (Happy middle-ground shirts, where the hell are you?) And when I say pocket, I really mean residence. Well, entire neighborhoods, really.

-Hmm, they have a plus size section. Do they make extra-small plus-size clothing? Shall I jump over there, flaunt the extra-small on the tag, and just tell anyone who’s curious that Plus was the name of the store and not the department I bought it in?

-I guess it’s time to drop the delusion that breastfeeding is helping me lose weight 10 months after the fact and that the magic of nursing isn’t negating my love affair with chocolate, wine and ice-cream.

Humbled by your thoughts, you suck it up, and purchase a couple of Extra-Large black and or gray items (even though you swore you’d branch out into actual colors) that do a half-assed job of hiding your more than half an ass and adjacent neighborhoods of fatty goodness. You assure yourself that when you escape the domestic dungeon that involves not enough free hours of the day needed to banish all of this unwanted squishiness, you will exercise at lunch hour. You will run again. You will do yoga in your office building.

But until that time (less than two months away) you will continue to use the kids and time at home and the whole “life is too short to eat salad 3 times a day” excuses and go home and surely eat chips. Or ice-cream. Or both. You have to somehow console yourself that you lost the Great Dressing Room Battle of 2008.

Ya. I totally have never done this either.