Nick has been extraordinarily patient with me and the pregnant whining and the trying to figure out what I might like to eat for dinner when things like chicken gross me out.
Not to mention with all the weight gain anxiety.
I know it's obsessive behavior, and I still don't weigh myself, but I do an ass check almost daily. First naked and then in clothes, to make sure I'm not exaggerating about how much it's growing.
I poke the extra flesh and I'm all, "Look! Ugh. Would you look at this?"
And he's all sweet and complimentary. And he says, completely convincingly, that he likes the extra curves. But I find it all kind of traumatizing.
So I realized yesterday that even his patience has limits. You see, we are having dinner tomorrow night with several of Nick's colleagues and their spouses.
And I don't really want to go, even though I like them all very much. I was trying to get out of it.
"Do you really want me to go?"
"Sweetie, you'll have fun."
"My brain stops working after eight. And then I have to go to sleep."
"Lis, they like you. They all have kids. They know what you're dealing with."
"I might hate the food."
"There'll be something you can eat."
And then I realize, fuck, I'm going to have to dress up. On jeans-on-Friday day. And beyond the no jeans, I hate dressing up when I feel relentlessly ugly in everything. Which is now the case. And is in fact the biggest issue in my out-for-dinner reluctance.
"And! Nick! And! What am I going to wear? I have to look nice. What do you propose I squeeze my fat ass into?"
"Honey, you can still squeeze your fat ass into lots of things."