GABRIELLE: I finish up the last crumbs of my Cheetos and suck the remaining orange fake cheese off my fingers. I follow that with Polly-O string cheese for good measure and lots of calcium. That’s my snack. For breakfast, I had an oversized ricotta cheese danish covered with almonds and a beautiful cantaloupe. So far, this is my wedding diet.
Today I’m venturing to my parents’ house to try on my Morgan Le Fay wedding dress. When I arrive I begin by washing my hands to get rid of the processed cheese stuck under my chipped, polished nails. Then when I’m all ready, I release my willowy white satin beauty from her cage. She flows out into my arms and I bury my face into her cool folds. I hold her up to gaze at her; she’s stunning and simple and now has a small orange stain below her zipper, where my unwashed Cheetos mouth landed. I try to wipe the smear off but I’m just making it worse. Shit-fucker. I’ll have to dry clean her again. I carefully step inside and pull her gracious fabric up and around me. She’s fitting tightly, extremely tightly.
“What are you carrying, twins?” My mother stands in the doorway, arms crossed in front of her chest, and despite the botox, a disapproving frown takes over her face.
“Actually I think I’m just really bloated,” I answer, sucking in my stomach but to no avail.
“I didn’t show until my fifth month,” she says. “Oh well, you’ll just have to get another dress.”
I look in the mirror. My mother, unfortunately, is right. I look like a puff pastry and there’s no way that the scant material can be let out to accommodate my “bloating.”
I’m now three months pregnant and I’m walking down the aisle in seven weeks. I unzip the dress and let it fall into a pile at my feet. Maybe I can cut it up and turn it into a veil.