But lest you think that it's all counting the cracks in the ceiling over here, allow me to assure you otherwise. I have big (and I do mean big) news.
Behold, this past week's newest twin pregnancy development - the nastiest feet on the planet:
I looked down at my feet at some point last week and was quite startled to see that they had swollen to twice their normal size. To give you an idea, my feet are normally quite small. I wear a size 5.5 or a 6. Now they require their own zip code. A nurse at my doctor's office assured me this was normal, and told me to avoid standing still in one place for a long time and to keep them elevated whenever possible. She told me to call immediately if one grows freakishly larger than the other. Uh, damn straight you'll be getting a phone call if that happens!
The runner's callouses, tan lines, and chipped unpainted nails finish the look, don't you think? They look like two baked Virginia hams.
I made the mistake of jamming them into heels for a wedding on Friday night. They didn't fit at the beginning of the evening, but somehow showing up to a formal evening reception in a downtown hotel wearing flip-flops, the only shoes I have that currently fit, while tempting, wasn't something I was willing to do.
Of course, as soon as I stuck my inflated feet under the white linen table cloth at table #16, I kicked my shoes off faster than you could say "Barefoot and Pregnant." I am high-class, ya'll. For reals.
Rather than teeter around like a cripple all night, once seated, I pretty much remained seated. And shoeless. At the end of the evening when I went to cram my feet into the shoes again, I realized my feet had swollen even more-I couldn't get them on at all.
And so, dripping with panache and style, I slung my heels over my thumb and waddled barefoot out of the hotel ballroom, down the long hall, down the stairs, and to the entrance to the parking ramp. The hubs went and got the car to pick me up, in which I collapsed in sheer relief.
Stay classy, San Diego.