Well, there is no denying it. I’ve entered the unmistakable last lap of the race. My form is out the window, my pace irregular and a steam of anger seems to rise as each stride has me cursing having ever entered the damn race. This is not to say that I am not rapturously in love with this amazing little spitfire growing in my belly or that I would turn the hands of time back and say, “Know what? Two is fine.” I am just sick of being pregnant. Today, dressed in a nice pair of slacks, a flirty purple XL non-maternity t-shirt with fluttery cap sleeves and black pumps, I felt cute. The hair worked, falling just so and my eyeliner went on…