Well, life goes on whether you want it to or not. I mean, duh, I always knew that, but it’s certainly hit me harder recently. Three weeks after losing Wyatt I had to go to a wedding. And be a bridesmaid in it. If you recall, Ed Purveyor of Bridesmaids’ Dresses was THE first person to learn about my pregnancy (aside from Hubby). I had no idea what giant sized-dress to order for a 7.5 months pregnant me; he suggested my bust was going to just about explode (which it eventually did. See: Boob Takeover); I thought I’d be better safe than sorry and just go huge. This dress had a special meaning to me; I was planning to be a plump purple maiden at my good friend’s wedding and I wanted a dress 8 sizes bigger than normal just to be sure I could do the job right. I wanted to be the glowing beauteous bellied babe standing by my bride-friend in all her glory. I wanted an excuse to duck out of the party and sit out the lame dances! For all these reasons, a few weeks in advance I went to the good seamstress’s place, explained my situation (like it wasn’t obvious), and paid an inordinate amount of cash to make this dress look good. So, let me admit that even thinking about going back into the seamstress’s shop to face her and pick up that stupid dress after I lost my baby made me tear up. Or more than tear up, but who’s tracking details. Brave ol’ Hubby pulled through for me. Since my boobs hadn’t grown (not even a budge!), and since bride-friend picked a pregnant-friendly empire waist, I was able to just about fit perfectly into the dress. It was horrible. It was like I never had anything in there in the first place. Nobody knew my story. Wyatt wasn’t there. I didn’t have an excuse to pig out like I did and I had to dance to Madonna. Oy.
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