Once upon a time, I was small enough to fit into items that can be classified as lingerie.
These days, I feel a little nostalgic when thinking about those times (and so, I suspect, is Scott).
Thankfully, I haven't had to retire all of my delicates in favour of their larger counterparts or (gag) granny panties but my bras have definitely moved from specialty sizing to "you gotta be kidding me" novelty territory. Embarrassingly, when my father saw one of my current contraptions, he offered the opinion that it could be used to float us all to safety in the case of a tsunami. Funny, dad, reeeeeally funny.
Awhile back, I ended up on the Victoria's Secret email list, which I don't mind under normal circumstances. I have been known to make the occasional run for the border so I could stock up on various items (all lawfully claimed with the appropriate border authorities, I swear) but these days it seems these emails are coming at a rate of a couple per day...a rate that borders on harassment.
I am starting to wonder if someone at V.S. has some CIA style tracking system that determines which of their clients are preggers so they can send taunting emails to those of us who are "blooming" into motherhood (in other words: "gettin' fat") 'cause it doesn't matter how great you look during pregnancy, you just can't pull off a V.S. outfit when you're 9 months pregnant quite the way you did before you started showing.
You hear that Heidi Klum? Even YOU probably looked like shite in your lacy bra and butt floss undies when you were 9 months pregnant! And you know what? I can rest easy in the knowledge that you a) don't know me; b) couldn't give a crap about what I write; and c) won't exactly be falling all over yourself to respond to this challenge to your pregnant hotness. No one can or will disabuse me of my self-serving notion that Heidi too suffered from cellulite and edema at this point in her pregnancy. Aaand somehow that makes me feel so much better.
I know it sounds a bit paranoid but every time I see a notification in my email box from Victoria Secret, I picture some faceless ass hat cackling as they consider the emotional effect of these anatomically impossible models being shoved in my face. Note to self: learn computer hacking techniques. Send V.S. a little viral "something something" as a thank-you-very-effing-much for reminding me on an hourly basis that I am - for now - a fat, gravid cow.
Yeah, yeah, before you all start writing the obligatory messages assuring me I'm wrong on that point, just let me clarify: I'm a fat, gravid, glowing cow.