My sister’s engagement party is coming up on Friday and I’ve been majorly stressing over what to wear. It’s going to be held at a fancy restaurant, so I’m pretty sure that my normal Friday post-work costume –  gauchos and a wife beater – are pretty much out of the question. Also out of the question: jeans, cargo pants, bathing suit cover ups (aka: cotton maxi dresses), and bath robes. 

Which leaves me as naked as my baby girl when she emerges from my womb. 

I took some time last weekend to shop around with my mom at the typical maternity stores (MOTHERHOOD, I AM SO CALLING YOU OUT HERE) to see if we could drum up something cute yet appropriate for Friday’s formal occasion, and everything we found with any tiny speck of potential whatsoever left me completely underwhelmed. My mom made me try on a few dresses anyway, and lo, I looked like a 58 year old frumpy bag lady.

(To all the 58 year old frumpy bag ladies: no hate. It’s just that I’m not even 25 yet, and although I don’t want to channel Miley Cyrus with my wardrobe, I’m not ready for the Frump either. I’m sure I’ll get there one day, though, and when I do we can all be BFFs and dress like old hags together. In the meantime I’ll be panicking over my current identity crisis. Thank you.)

Not only were the dresses large enough to host the Ringling Brothers underneath, but they came in morbid, depressing colors to boot, like gray, brown, and gray with white stripes. We’re young, hip, mothers-to-be, for crying out loud, not preparing ourselves for a field trip to the morgue.

Strike one.

After we gave up on the maternity stores, we went to a regular boutique clothing store thinking that maybe I could find a non-maternity dress in a larger size. One of the girls there helping us suggested a long, flowy silk number that was actually really cute. Not paying attention to the size, I went into the dressing room to try it on. Of course it was one of those dressing rooms with the mirrors OUTSIDE the door (obviously a man’s idea), so I had no choice but to leave the safe, badly lit confines of my two by two box, open the door, and step out into the store so that I could look into the mirror.

Despite the fact that I felt as round as a manatee, this dress was practically falling off my shoulders and drooping so far down in the front that I think I flashed everyone within a one mile radius. Come to find out the salesgirl had given me an XL to try on, and as much as I may be an XL around my waist, the boobs, I am certain, will never live up to those two capitalized letters.

Strike two. 

Just as I was ready to give up and wear a muumuu with a sign on my back that read DON’T ASK to the engagement party, my mom started scouring the web to try and find something for me to wear. Later that day she sent me an email with this picture attached, wondering if it was something I liked:

Picture 1When I saw it, I was all this? THIS dress is considered MATERNITY? But it’s not brown! And it’s cute and has a shape and detail to it and couldn’t possible fit elephants and acrobats under there!

So she took the cue and ordered it for me and it will arrive on my doorstep today. I’m really counting on it fitting and looking at least mildly decent, and if it does I’m going to take a picture of myself wearing it, write a letter to a particular maternity clothing store (MOTHERHOOD, THAT’S YOU AGAIN), and demand that those designers just go ahead and retire. Step down. Find another job at the place where 58 year old frumps shop, wherever that may be. Right now I have a feeling they shop at an unnamed maternity store. 

(MOTHERHOOD.)