Fat Clothes

Yesterday, Husband and I did something scary. We went to the mall, frightening in itself, but then, we went to a store that specifically sells clothes for girls who've managed to get themselves in the family way. I think I would have felt more comfortable had we been on safari and ravenous, ravenous rhinos were charging our jeep. I was relieved when we entered the store and Husband was not the only man-person in there. Another couple, who looked to be our age, and VERY Catholic were also in the store. This poor, domesticated husband was not only forced to go to a store of this nature, but he was also forced (chose?) to go into the dressing room with his wife. After they picked out a few clothes, she stayed in the dressing room, instructing him on which clothes to bring her next. But this is about my adventure, not anonomyous Catholic couple's adventure. I started lightly flipping out when Husband and I went into the store, and he told me to stop being silly and why was I flipping out. He'd just heard my treatise on why I didn't want to go into the store (I think it's totally normal to worry about jinxing things, but apparently the rest of the world doesn't share this view), so I understood why patience might have been a little thin. I picked out a pair of pants and carried them around, dragging my feet and pouting. Husband, always a good sport, then started picking out clothes for me. It went something like this.
Husband: Do you like this shirt/pants/sweater?
Me: Yes.
Husband: Here. (Thrusts item of clothing at me)
Repeat. Several times.
When I had four or five items, I attempted to find a dressing room. The first one was occupied by the other couple. Honestly, had they not already procreated (and been wearing a sweatshirt proclaiming devotion to Mary), I would have assumed that that's why both halves of the couple were in the dressing room. I passed on the other four because they each had a massive, massive bra in them. When I realized that all of the dressing rooms had bras with enough padding that I could have comfortably napped on them in the dressing room, I chose one and started trying on. Pants and skirts in this store all come with a fourteen inch elastic panel where a zipper and button should be. Being unsure what to do with said panel that reaches to my boobs, I folded it down a few times and went to show Husband my outfit. He approved and handed me several other items of clothing.
While modeling one particular sweater/pants combo, the lone employee at the store happened to notice me. She informed me that the size I was wearing was too small (it felt okay to me), that I needed a medium (I was already wearing a medium), and she'd be happy to go get me one. I nodded and smiled, and while she aquired the proper size, she explained the bras in the dressing room. They're not bras. They're "3 month pillows." 3 month pillows are egg shaped pillows with a velcro strap attached on both sides so a person can strap the pillow to her stomach and see what she'll look like three months later. In three months, I will look like I have an egg shaped tumor growing out of my pregnant stomach.
Despite my impending tumor, I found that fat-girl clothes are actually quite comfortable, and will happily recommend them to all my friends, knocked up or not.