“I have absolutely nothing to wear,” I yell exasperated from the depths of my walk-in closet, a sea of rejected dresses at my feet, my husband sprawled across the bed. No doubt, a comical sight for him to behold, as my idea of date night usually consists of yoga pants and a hoodie, bra optional. He must have thought me mad.
From inside the closet I launch into a full meltdown, “How are they supposed to trust me to grow their small human, if I can’t even dress myself properly?” I could feel it now. I was losing this battle. Anxiety was taking over, robbing me of the confidence I had spent all week nurturing. Like preparing for a blind date, my brain swirled with curiosities. What would they think about me? Would I be worthy of them? What if there was no chemistry?
The row of empty hangers grimaced at me now, taunting me. I peered down at the useless rainbow of cloth littering the closet floor. Reluctantly, I plucked a dress from the pile and began the second round of the fashion show. The right dress was in here. It had to be. Yoga pants would not be an option tonight.
Quickly, I shimmied back into the first dress and pranced out of the closet. “How does this look?”
He raised his eyebrow, and cautiously inquired, “The first dress you tried on?”
The warning in my eyes gave him pause, but with a wide grin, he happily continued, “It still looks great! Just like it did 30 minutes ago,” barely stifling his laughter.
I was not amused. Defeated, I screamed, “Fine, I’ll just wear this then!” Storming past him, down the stairs, and out the front door, I retreated to the car.
Quietly I fumed in the passenger seat as we made our way to dinner. Mercifully, the 35-minute drive to the restaurant provided ample time for reflection. Unable to figure out who or what I was angry at, I began to regain my composure.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered sheepishly. “I don’t know what that was about.”
Reaching for my hand and interlocking his fingers with mine, he smiled, “I love you. They are going to love you too.”
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