Of sizes and random tantrums

This post is going to be about weight and size and  pregnancy hormones and all those vain things pregnant women are not supposed to crib about.It also contains mildly inflammatory feminist sentiments,which some men might find disturbing. Well, grab an extra buttery muffin ,you’ll be just fine in a bit.

For someone who has  languished in  an “XS”  size for a substantial period of time, I’ve come a long way. I distinctly remember wanting to do nothing with the “XS” tag back when I was one and was truly ecstatic when I hit the “M” mark. Random aunties who had routinely bombarded me with ” How will you ever get married if you are so skinny?” suddenly started seeing me in a new light. As if the sole purpose of my existence was to  strive to become an “M” for the sake of  getting married to some guy who I barely knew. Its a different thing that the guy could be “XS”  or even an “XXXXS” and still be considered a “catch”. Because a man is a man and therefore above such trivial things.  

Anyway,the years just galloped by and one fine day I woke up being too small for my “M” clothes. Many Meena Kumari-acts followed , but I was refused re-entry back at the golden gates of “M”. I drowned my sorrows in  barrels of long island ice tea, and having seen so much trauma in life so early, I was ready for anything.
“XL biatch , bring it on..” was my war cry. 
Of course , I had no intention of becoming an “XL” in my lifetime. XL” happened to other people , not to me. I had superior “XS” genes, didn’t I ? Now that I fondly (not) reminisce about those days ,I  realize how delusional I’ve been ,because now “XL” is so much a part and parcel of my existence.
*Meena Kumari-act* and stop mosquito coil. Cut to the present.
  
The other day I was in some random snobby clothing store to pick up some stuff. The  snooty attendant looked at me bitchily for a second trying to ascertain whether I was just plain heavy or pregnant-heavy. I glared back at her and shoved my tummy at her nose ( If you are one of those visual people, please don’t take this statement literally). As if people needed to apologize to her highness for being plain heavy.
A second later, the girl smiled and blurted “How many months ,mam?” 
I mumbled something inaudibly and dilly-dallied when she asked me my size. Finally, having had enough of the “sour-pregnant-pain-in-the-arse-woman”, the woman left me alone to languish in the aisles.
A few minutes later, another young thing appeared and asked, “How many months, mam?”
But this one was was an “XL” herself and I warmed immediately to her. For the next 15 minutes or so , the girl tried to amuse me by pulling out shiny-bright clothes with the sole purpose of bankrupting me.
Nothing seemed interesting and I flipped my phone and stared disinterestedly  like some kitty-party-conducting-society-wife.
 Finally,  I spotted something promising and pointed it to her. 
“But mam, that is an XL.Maybe you should be looking at an XXL, with your… ahem.. si..pregnancy,” she said.
She meant  my “SIZE”.  XXL and me?!

The world stopped spinning for a minute.

She had been showing me XXL stuff all along. And I thought she was my friend. I had even proffered my life history, and offered to spam the chap’s inbox with her brother’s CV , all in a fit of giddy sister-hood bonding .

 No, I wouldn’t give in.
“XL will be fine,” I said firmly.
The girl sighed and pulled out the same thing in XL.
But wait ! It wasn’t the same pattern.
” I want that yellow design with the red piping and orange flowers, not purple flowers,” I whined.  
Which they didn’t have. A few more “patterns” that I liked weren’t available in the right colours too.Then it sunk in that the choices one has  gets appallingly lesser as on progresses up the size radar.It just wasn’t fair. Aren’t large people entitled to their orange flowers? Why should we be pretend to be happy with purple flowers ?

Suddenly, my whole existence seemed pointless.
I  probably looked like I was on the verge of shedding  a couple of tears.
By now the girl was exasperated with my hormone-fueled demands and looked like she would do a Meena Kumari-act herself. She let out a huge sigh of relief when I announced that I was leaving.

Poor thing.

I did feel a little bad later about giving her such a nasty time.If only they had stocked that orange flower kurta, everyone would have been happy.I am sure the girl will never forget the orange flower kurta in her lifetime..At least  I  know I won’t.