No Shoes For You

Trying to be fabulous as my lower body was drowning

So when my pregnancy-induced water retention made it impossible to fit into any of my shoes I ended up at K-Mart. In the men's shoe department. Sigh. This Stay-Puft Marshmallow Momma now needed a size eight men's shoe. And not just any old shoe, but the basket ball slippers with the velcro tops so the height can be adjusted for my horrible case of brick-like Flintstone feet. I know these particular shoes are men's basketball slippers because my co-worker Taylor started laughing at me the day I waddled them into work – “those are the slippers Filipino b-boys wear to the basketball court!” Taylor is a Filipino fashionista. And no names have not been changed to protect the “innocent” (you laughed at the fat feet of a 9 ½ month pregnant woman from the comfort of your BCBG dress and perfect Sephora make up. I love you but screw you Taylor, under the bus with you).

Taylor did not actually hurt my feelings, but out shopping later that day a few women that I didn't know almost did. Let me paint a mental picture for you, and no I'm not paying for your therapy when I'm done. As a visiting home nurse I keep my hair pulled neatly back in a braided bun, and since I was about six months pregnant I have worn dresses to work since scrubs no longer fit. I even add a pretty necklace to try to keep the focus up off of the feet. Then came the compression hose. They are super opaque and give the vague impression of “mannequin skin.” I wear footies over them for a few reasons. I could only afford one pair and I did not want them to end up with a hole in them. At this point I could only stuff my feet into open shoes so I also did not want them to end up dirty. Got that? Compression hose, black footies, size 8 men's baller slippers. This is not a place one shoots for people, this is a place one ends up. Pregnancy-induced fashion impairment.

I had several errands to run that day and picking up a few items at Target was one of them. As I entered the store a well-put-together woman that looked to be in her 60's gave me that head-to-toe scan of judgement women tend to give one another. As her scan went from my head to my toes she came back for a second pass starting at my knees and going back down to my befootied b-boy slippers. Then she made that face of female disapproval that looks somewhere between catching a whiff of rotten fish and like maybe an escaped zoo monkey threw a hand full of poo at her. And maybe her butthole itches. I hoped it did. Because clearly this was a carefully thought out ensemble. I had exactly the same experience inside the store not ten minutes later from another random female. She was maybe ten years old. Inherent female on female nastiness/judginess is taught early. Glad I'm having a boy.

Fashion critics aside, good things did happen this day. In three of the five stores I was in, cashiers pulled me out of line (even if I was not necessarily next) opened registers and rang me out. Now I'm not sure if they were just being nice because I was remarkably pregnant or if they just wanted me out of the store before my water broke on their floors (Crackling of intercom: clean up in the men's shoe department...clean up in men's shoes...) but whatever, I'll take it. Maybe they just couldn't stand the sight of my fashion faux pas.

So whenever you see a pregnant woman, especially of the Very Pregnant variety – be nice. It could be the difference whether this tired Momma-to-be ends her day on a crying jag or not. Hold the door for her, let her go ahead of you in line, tell her she is glowing even if she is dressed like she lost a bet (my baby daddy boxers and flip flops are all that fit! And this headband). Because being a Goddess in Full Bloom is hard work. And because fuck you! When was the last time your feet grew four sizes in four weeks?!? Besides the last time you were pregnant, I mean.