Until about 1:30 PM yesterday, I really thought my regular pants were still fitting fine, and I was very thankful for that. I mean, I'm only 11 weeks along and not sporting more than a little bloated pooch. There's no reason for me to be wearing, or even buying, maternity pants yet.
I was so, so wrong.
I went shopping with a friend who already has two little monsters...er...bundles of joy...of her own, and she urged me to try the pants on. She told me it would be worth it. She's such a pusher. But I caved anyway. I tried them on, and I liked them. That stretchy-waisted denim was one of the most comfortable things I have ever put on. They felt like sweatpants, but looked cute like jeans. Never mind that the ridiculously high waistline made me feel like a geriatric male. So, I walked out of the dressing room and bought the pants. They were only $17. That's half the price of a pair of regular jeans. How could I pass a deal like that up?
Later in the afternoon, after I had squeezed myself back into my restrictive normal jeans, my friend tells me I should just wear the pants when we go out to dinner. To be fair, I may have asked if it would be ok to wear them, you know, in the interest of science, to see if they really were more comfortable than my normal jeans. Either way, I eventually put them on, but couldn't quite bring myself to take the tags off. That makes it so permanent. After being ridiculed for walking around like an idiot with tags hanging off my hip, I took them off. I did it. I committed myself to 6 months of maternity clothes. And it felt good.
Despite the progress I've made in accepting my elasticized panel fate, I'm still not ready for the inevitable total wardrobe overhaul. I'm only 11 weeks along, and barely sporting more than a little bloated pooch. I don't need those pants. Well, maybe I do. Just a little.