America's Next Top Mom-del

THIS PREGNANCY IS KILLING ME.  But that is besides the point.  More pressing, I can't fit into my clothes.  My big, giant maternity clothes, ones that I dismissed as "clown costumes" seven months ago.  And the ones I can fit into are stained, covered in remnants of whatever I happened to be eating recently, since, apparently, my center of gravity is off and therefore, so is my ability to guide the fork directly into my mouth without detours.

I only have about 6 more weeks until my due date, which seems like a short period of time - too short to justify buying new clothes.  But when I added up the *days* - that's, like, 42 more days - an eternity!  It seemed like enough to to warrant buying a few new potato sacks to heave my massive girth into.  So, this past Saturday morning, after pulling a dress over my enormous belly and discovering yet a new stain, I hightailed it to the mall with my toddler, heading straight for the maternity store, aka Muu-Muus 'R Us. 

As soon as we walked into the mall, something seemed different.  The mall had just opened, yet it was packed.  A line of people snaked around the perimeter, and after a minute, I realized it wasn't just people.  It was all women.  Young, dressed-up women, wearing tons of makeup and teeny outfits.  Through a haze of hair spray, I could see that every one of them looked like they were en route to a club, each trying to out-hip the next one.  Never in my life have I witnessed so many dangerously high heels in one place at 10:00 am.  What could possibly bring these fashionistas out so early on a Saturday
morning?  Duh.  It was an audition for America's Next Top Model.

As we made our way to the maternity store, I could feel the eyes of the women in line sizing me up, and all too quickly, realizing that I was no source of competition for them.  What gave it away?  Was it my height (I mean, at not quite 5'6", I'm obviously too short to model)?  Or was it the fact that I resembled a waddling penguin smuggling a watermelon under my shirt, while I pushed my sweaty hair out of my eyes and consoled the cranky child velcroed to my legs who was whining for more Goldfish crackers?

We passed more women.  Super-short shorts and stilettoes.  Lots of sunglasses, which I find particularly offputting on a person who is neither outdoors nor famous.  We got to the store, and I spent a few minutes and a lot of money on a couple of new dresses to shove my bovine-like physique into.  (Saleswoman: Did you find anything you like?  Me: No.  I look like a whale in everything.  Saleswoman:  Uhhhh... ok, can I ring up your purchases?) 

And I thought about the aspiring models.  If I were 20 years old, would I be in that line, tricked out and dripping in confidence and attitude?  More alarmingly, will my daughter be in that line in 20 years?  Do I need to start reading her my dog-eared and highlighted copy of "Backlash" right now?  Or will I encourage her in all her pursuits, whether or not I agree or approve?

As we left the mall, I was tempted to ask for an application for the model search and get in line behind the painted ladies, thinking that I could help boost their self-esteem by being at least one easily-beatable contestant.  But we had to get home.  I had dresses to try on.  And a real life to attend to, in which makeup is optional and high heels are forbidden.  

An original DC Metro Moms post.  Diana discusses other self-esteem destruction methods at Caffeinated.