Extreme Denial

You know how you denial works. It can make you think ridiculous, often deranged things, like:

-- These Easter-sized candy bars are soooo small; I might as well eat 5 or 6 of them. I'll just walk an extra 10 minutes on the treadmill. Or not.

-- Watching Rock of Love Bus and Bad Girls Club is a totally worthwhile use of my time.

-- I might as well buy this expensive handbag because I'm totally going to win the Powerball on Wednesday, so I'll be able pay it off immediately.

But my biggest, most recent denial has beeen in regards to my shoes. Many of my child-bearing friends have said that at some point in my pregnancy, my shoes would probably stop fitting for a while.

Fuck that, I thought. My feet know better than to deprive me of my very favorite accessory in the world. All my baby bulkiness has thankfully gone right where it's supposed to (belly) and nowhere else. I wanted to at least keep wearing cute shoes. A girl has to feel fancy somehow, right? I could even live with wearing my fun, colorful flats/sandals for the sake of comfort.

So I was unprepared yesterday, when my black patent strappy sandals were too tight. And by tight, I mean after three hours (of sitting at my desk, not even walking around), they were buried in the top of my feet.

I changed into my sparkly flip-flops for the rest of the day. And then when I got home and wanted to walk the dogs, my freakin' tennis shoes felt snug.

What the fuck is this?, I thought. I've been walking and drinking water and doing yoga, partly for health, and partly in hopes that this would not happen.

I'll tell you what this is. It's the beginning of me wearing Mary Jane style Crocs and sandals -- I bought them today -- for the next three or so months. Flip-flops are OK, but they don't have enough arch support for all the running around I do for work.

See ya later, pride.