One of my many glamorous activities as a Hollywood writer is making trips to Target for fancy L.A. items such as cat litter and toilet paper. I made this very trek today, feeling rather good about myself because my black shirt and new True Religion maternity jeans camouflaged my bump bea-uuuu-ti-fully.
Amazing what a nice-fitting black tank top can do for your spirits, isn’t it? Let’s face it, George Michael was right: conversely to his previous gospel, sometimes the clothes DO make the (wo)man.
Buoyed by my flattering outfit, I cruised a rack of workout clothes, certain that all of the other Tar-jay shoppers were equally admiring of my concealing attire. Of course, if I truly had accomplished my mission, they wouldn’t be able to tell I was pregnant in the first place, nor would they think twice about a boring ol’ tank top and jeans. But, as we all know, logic + pregnancy = does not compute.
Hey, at least my math is getting better!
So I was coolly checking out the snazzy oversized t-shirts, my bump incognito — when I not-so-coolly knocked about five of the shirts on the floor. Smooth, Candy, smooth. I bent over to pick them up… when I felt my maternity jeans slip south. Now, I’m no retail expert, but I’m fairly certain the crotch of my pants should NOT be aligned with my knees. You see, I’d bought the jeans on the bigger side, knowing the day would soon come that I would MORE than fill them out.
Today was not that day, however. And you know what that means: HERE COMES THE PLUMBER’S CRACK!
Only it’s even worse. It’s PREGGERS CRACK. And nobody should have to be subjected to that — except maybe Bernie Madoff. Yes, a lifetime in solitary confinement, forced to watch a Preggers Crack slideshow on continuous loop. Talk about poetic justice.
I drop the shirts and slooooowly stand up, ever cognizant of the trauma I could potentially inflict upon onlookers innocently shopping for cheap-chic potpourri balls. I manage to sneak behind the sports bras shelf and tug up my pants. Which, because of the large elastic waistband, is no easy feat. I briefly resemble a Mexican jumping bean channeling Robin Williams doing an Andy Dick impression. Alas… danger finally averted.
But wait! I feel someone’s eyes boring a hole into my back. An admirer of my outfit? A traumatized crack victim?
I turn around to find an elderly Target employee with a June Cleaver ‘do giving me the stink eye, then making a point of disapprovingly eyeing the shirts that still lay on the ground. Busted.
I responded as any courteous customer would; I lovingly cradled my baby bump and shrugged:
“Sorry, I’m pregnant. I can’t bend over very well!”
This admittedly shaky alibi was followed by my quickly pushing the cart towards the toiletries aisle — while pushing my bump out as FAR as it would go.
Screw the camoflauge. I’m going to exploit, er… enjoy this bump while I can.