Page 65 of Pregnant in Plaid
The saleswoman appears again, still smiling. "That color really brings out your eyes!"
"My eyes are brown."
"Exactly!"
I'm starting to think this woman is programmed to only say positive things, like a very expensive robot.
I try on four more dresses. One makes me look like a bridesmaid from a budget wedding in the eighties. Another has a bow on the back that's so large it coulddouble as a parachute. The third is so tight around my chest I can barely breathe, and the fourth has sleeves that make me look like I'm about to perform a magic trick.
"I'm going to die here," I announce, collapsing onto the chair next to Tessa. "They're going to find my body in this dressing room, and the headline will be 'Woman Defeated by Formal Wear.'"
"We'll find something," Tessa promises. "There's got to be one dress in this entire store that works."
"I'm shaped like a planet, Tessa. Planets don't fit into dresses."
"You're not shaped like a planet."
"I'm round. Planets are round. The math checks out."
She stands up and walks over to a rack I haven't looked at yet. It's in the corner, kind of hidden behind a display of veils. She pulls out a dress and holds it up.
"What about this one?"
It's a deep emerald green—not Christmas tree green, but darker, richer. The neckline is modest, the sleeves are three-quarter length, and the empire waist sits just under the bust before flowing out in soft, forgiving fabric.
"It's pretty," I admit.
"Try it on."
I haul myself up and take the dress. Back in the torture chamber—sorry, dressing room—I manage to get it on without any wardrobe malfunctions. Thefabric is soft, the fit is comfortable, and when I look in the mirror?—
Oh.
I actually look... good?
Not despite being pregnant, but just... good. The dress works with my body instead of against it. The color makes my skin look less like a zombie's and more like an actual living person's. I don't look like a planet or a Christmas tree or a tent.
I look like myself. Just a pregnant version.
I step out of the dressing room, and Tessa's face lights up.
"That's it," she says. "That's the dress."
"Really?"
"Really. You look beautiful."
The saleswoman appears—I'm starting to think she has some kind of radar—and clasps her hands together. "Oh, that's perfect! The color, the fit, everything!"
"I'll take it," I say before I can second-guess myself.
Twenty minutes later, Tessa has her final dress fitting and I'm walking out of the store with a garment bag slung over my shoulder and a significantly lighter bank account.
"Lunch?" Tessa suggests. "There's a cute café two blocks from here."
"Does it have food?"
"Obviously."
