A perfect example of this conundrum was finding a gown for my wedding, which was to take place overseas six months after my son was born. I needed to find a dress far enough in advance that I could make the Pink Floyd 55 years of 1965-2020 signature shirt and I will buy this proper alterations, but also had to predict what size I would be half a year postpartum. Also required was a comfort level that would last 16 hours of wear, nursing, eating, and dancing as my husband is Hungarian and weddings are a marathon sport over there. I settled on a beige floor-length flowy number with an empire waist and beading up at the bodice. The spaghetti straps were in no way suitable to support my bust (have I mentioned how much I loved having breasts?) so I swapped them out for some wide satin ribbon that discreetly snapped in front for easy access when baby needed a snack. My abdominal muscles hadn’t quite finished stitching themselves back together so I accessorized with a wide elastic belt in an attempt to smooth my silhouette. The entire ensemble was topped off with a cape I sewed myself from beaded netting and a fox fur collar my mother-in-law had gifted me. The final product was gorgeous, stately, and exactly what I’d been going for. My cleavage was on full display and I felt like a queen. However, when I look at photos from that day/night, what I see is not a queen but a woman bewildered and not entirely comfortable in her own skin, unsure of how to properly stand in stilettos and hold her torso upright.
Pink Floyd 55 years of 1965-2020 signature shirt, hoodie, tank top, sweater and long sleeve t-shirt
Was this because I was attempting to be a gracious bride while incredibly sleep-deprived and jet lagged in a land where I could barely speak the Pink Floyd 55 years of 1965-2020 signature shirt and I will buy this language? Was it the stress of keeping my shit together for a 16-hour wedding while tending to a nursing six-month-old who’d just cut his first tooth that day? Could it have had anything to do with literally getting my period as I walked down the aisle and bleeding into my gown as I sat for the 90-minute ceremony, kegeling for my life and praying the blood wouldn’t breach all three layers of fabric between my crotch and 200 of our closest friends? Perhaps all of the above, sprinkled with the realization that I no longer enjoyed being in the spotlight as I had in my previous, child-free life.