Dear women of baby baring age,
I have filled my quota of baby showers for the year.
Please keep your legs closed until 2013.
I cringed when I got those 2 little envelopes sealed with an unhealthy dose of excitement and pregnancy cooties in the mail because I knew that some weekend in my future is about to be screwed in the poop shoot.
That I will have to spend $50 I don’t have and hours walking around aimlessly searching for the item listed as #23235827 at the store.
Like why can’t store registries just read “She wants an overly priced blue blanket and it’s located in aisle 4 on the shelf with the baby monitors because it makes absolutely no sense to store them there.”
That I will have to engage in awkward dances of conversation between family members I haven’t seen since the last funeral.
That I will have the question “When are you having another baby?” 500 times and that I will have to refrain from answering them with “Since we are asking very personal questions, when are you going to lose the baby weight that you gained with your first?”
That I will have to participate in stupid games in order to receive dollar store lotions that itch your skin when applied, smell like your grandma, and that will end up being stuffed in the back of my bathroom cabinet.
That I will have to ooooh and ahhhh about bags and wrapping paper and baskets that took 5 hours to assemble into into a masterpiece of cuteness and then watch the pregnant woman take 20 minutes trying to carefully unwrap them.
There isn’t a god damned bomb in there. Just open it already.
That I will have to pretend to be so excited about baby clothes, breast pumps, and tiny nail clippers.
That I will have to fight 7 other women for the mini bowl of candy in the center of our table because it’s 3:30 and we haven’t had lunch because we’re still playing games.
And that I will have to strategize how to make it to the buffet line with out being trampled by said women.
And that I will have to patiently wait to plow through the cake because everyone needs to take a picture of it.
That I will wait in line to say goodbye and good luck to the mom to be and hear all the seasoned moms tell her that her that her vagina is going to rip.
And then I will speak up and tell her that she will do magnificent.
And that no matter what happens, it’ll all be worth it.
That I will tell her that her shower was beautiful and lie that I was glad she invited me.
That I will breathe a sigh of relief when I make it to the parking lot and lock my doors.
And I will curse the asshole who thought that baby showers was a good idea.
Go ahead and judge me.
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