You know how they suggest you gain twenty-five to thirty pounds when you’re pregnant? Well, I’m an overachiever. I shoveled bread, meat and cheese into my pregnant piehole around the clock and managed to packed on more than fifty pounds each time (although in my defense I did have fairly large babies at almost nine pounds a piece). After the first one, I was pretty sure my days of wearing fitted frocks were over.

But by some miracle of God or nursing or both, that cheeseburger and meatball weight “baby weight” came right off, literally within a few weeks. Convinced it was a tapeworm and that the pooch would come back as soon as I had it removed, I did what I think anyone would do in this situation: I ran out and bought the tiniest, form-fittingest dress I could find.


Could I breathe in it? No! Did that matter? Not even a little bit. It’s days were numbered anyway.

Except magically they weren’t. With the exception of another identical pregnancy (weight-gain wise, at least) and more than a decade of gravitational pull, not much has changed. I could wear this dress anytime I wanted to suck in my gut all night. I just never do. I have plenty TRUST ME of little black dresses I love far more. It’s time for this tulle-trimmed one to find a new home.