Have you ever noticed that your vanity kicks in right about the least convenient time? Camping for example, en route to a camping trip I’ll inevitably find an errant eyeborw that somehow escaped the nightly scan and pluck. The entire trip (mind you, we aren’t hardcore campers with two toddlers and a small business, but still, even 48 hours can be an ordeal…) I’ll obsess, surreptitously running a finger over the offending renegade. Upon returning home I’ll dash to the bathroom, not to finally pee on something that does not harbor spiders and the off chance potential of an other-worldly creature scurrying up from the depths below to attack me at my most vulnerable, but to grab the tweezers and pluck the oh-my-god-I-bet-it-can-be-seen-for-miles-I’m-a-mutant eyebrow hair.
Ok, so you haven’t experienced that, but surely you’ve had the pregnancy grooming blues, no? I find myself needing to shave my legs, my desperation is heightened with each pop of my belly. Oh no, oh no, soon I won’t be able to bend over. How will I live with the stubble.
And my feet? I am out of control preoccupied with the condition of my soles, as if I have a whole closet full of sling back, peep toe pumps to be wearing. And palces to be wearing them. I have a handy-dandy little pumice and file tool, which I use liberally each time I am in the shower. It is getting harder though, and while my desire to have soft, silky soles continues, my attention to detail or ability to sustain the intensity of filing necessary to achieve the desired result is just not there.
I pad to the bedroom, my belly popping playfully from beneath a medium sized towel, and begin the arduous process of finding clothes that are comfy yet cute. Ha! Now, each time I shower I say to myself, “Take lotion in and put it on right after you get out. Lock that moisture in,” but each time I forget the lotion. Standing there dripping and cold, lotion on the bedside table within reach, I think, “Mmm, it’s too cold.” I sit on the bed and pull on yoga pants, a long tank top and a long sleeved shirt and then move to pull on socks. I am horrified at the half-finished job on my feet. I grab the lotion and slather it on my feet, which never softens my feet, but rather highlights the roughness and need for further attention. Later, I’ll lie in bed scratching at my dry skin, the skin that I could have soothed with lotion, but chose not to in the self-defeating battle of pregnancy capriciousness. I want smooth feet and soft skin, but I can’t get it together or reach it to do it.
Luckily I have a husband who thinks my belly is amazing and who buys me Smartwool socks.