KARA: It’s Joy’s turn to be measured for her floor-length champagne bridesmaid gown, a potentially awkward moment of truth because – as I’ve previously chronicled here – Joy might be pregnant. I assume that we’ll meet with “the luscious AJ,” my empowering dress designer – who assured me, during my fitting, that my five extra pounds added “alluring curves.”
However, we search and search, but much to my dismay, we can’t find AJ. Instead a frantic, harsh and less tactful saleswoman attends to poor Joy, who is standing arms akimbo, drowning in a sample-size 12 gown.
The saleswoman clucks, pushes, pulls, and rattles off measurements. “Eight. You’re an eight,” she pronounces. “All set.”
But Joy pipes up: “I’m thinking of getting pregnant.”
The saleswoman looks stunned, as if this is the ultimate act of betrayal. “Pregnant? Preeeeg-nant! Well, are you pregnant now?”
“No, but, in a few months, I might be a little bit–”
“Honey…” the saleswoman, who doesn’t have a mind for nuance, cuts Joy off: “Either you’re pregnant or you’re not. There’s no ‘leetle-beet’ pregnant.”
Joy laughs mildly. “That’s true.”
The woman continues sternly: “I need to order your dress by mid-April. Either you’ll be pregnant and we order you a size up, or you promise not to be leetle-beet pregnant for the lovely bride here,” pointing to me. “OK?”
Feeling that the issue’s resolved, our saleswoman can relax. “‘Leetle-beet pregnant!'” she chuckles, enjoying the comedy of it all.