You're so vain...

If there's one thing I'm learning about pregnancy and impending mommyhood, it is that vanity is a concept unknown -- and unwelcome -- in this strange new territory.

I've never been extremely high maintenance. Okay, maybe a little high maintenance. I just happened to spend the majority of my life being extremely spoiled so that I enjoy nicer things. I love my $80 Editor pants from Express (have you tried them? They make your ass look AMAZING). I love my Seven jeans. I love my Dolce & Gabbana shoes. And my MAC makeup, Tiffany jewelry and Coach purses. I like nice things. The more expensive the better. I maxed out the "just for emergencies" credit card from my parents numerous times to the point that it was closed the day after graduation. Thanks Mom...

I have an amazing genetic makeup that makes me a freak of nature. Before I became pregnant, I lived off of Italian food (hello, carbs!) and fast food. If it was deep fried, sugar-filled and chock full of trans fat, I was all over it. And I still maintained a svelte 5'10, 140 lb. figure. I sparked bulemia rumors back in the sorority days, and those that didn't believe I had an eating disorder just thought I was one lucky bitch. So when I did become pregnant, up until my fifth month I had gained a total of one, yes, ONE, UNO, EINS... pound.

Then it happened. The baby decided she was going to be making herself known in all her radiant glory (oh yeah, it's a girl by the way), and all of a sudden, BOOM, I had the prego belly. I never went through the "chubby or pregnant?" phase. I just went straight from overactive metabolism to pregnant orca whale. There was no gradualism to it. So you can imagine how excited I was shopping for clothes for our impending Vegas wedding/vacation and realizing I was now too big for even the sizes I'd once deemed entirely too large.

Oh yes, and another thing -- shopping for sexy lingerie in stores like Victoria's Secret (and racier stores, it's my honeymoon, give me a break, a girl's gotta get her freak on once in a while) is always fun when you have an obvious pregnant bump. You get the strange feeling that everyone looking at you is thinking, "Haven't you had ENOUGH sex? Haven't you learned your lesson you little harlot?"

My vanity was gone and I was shopping in the plus size department, until finally I mustered up the courage to peek in the maternity store.

I will say this: everyone working in the maternity store is pregnant. I am thoroughly convinced they strap those empathy bellies from high school on these chicks. And I decided after one trip -- and getting totally freaked out, I don't know why -- that all maternity clothes are ugly and overpriced. I'm looking at these jeans with these GIGANTIC kangaroo freaking pouches in the front and I'm thinking, "What is THAT?" I told my mother of this and she said, "Oh, just wait." This isn't not reassuring.

In the meantimes, I hate maternity clothes. Besides being ugly, they're just... no, that's pretty much it, they're ugly. I don't want to look like used goods sent packing in a muumuu and sweatpants. I want to be hot. I mean, seriously, how the HELL do celebrities like Angelina Jolie look so damn hot? It's not fair, I thought to myself as I stared begrudgingly at the empire-waisted empire laid out before me.

My bump is cute. My newly expanded ass is not.

And so the battle against maternity clothes continues...