It's happened. She'd heard this day might come - feared its arrival, to be honest, and now it's here.
She's only just made it to her lunch hour and already it's unbearable. The pinching, the aching pain. This is all just so damned unfair. Isn't it enough that she has to put up with the other unfortunate aspects of babymakin' - the night sweats, the migraines, the heartburn and the muscle aches.
And now this.
She frowns and toes off her favorite shoes - her classy-but-comfortable, perfect-for-pregnancy low heels - and it takes more effort than she'd like. But the relief is immediate, and she sighs, wiggling her pedicured toes - hot pink, this time - and dutifully ignoring the indentation along her foot where the shoes had been digging in.
There's a sales guy at her side in moments, all put-together and fashionable, and friendly with just a hint of sass. Gay, she concludes. In her head, she scorns him for never having to go through this crap himself - and then he says to her, "Hello there, beautiful mama-to-be. What can I get for you today?" with so much kindness and sympathy she almost feels bad for thinking ill of him.
Almost, but not quite.
"My shoes don't fit anymore," she tells him. "And it's depressin' the hell out of me."
He makes a sympathetic face and assures her he'll take good care of her, that she'll leave with something gorgeous.
She walks out of the store an hour later with her old favorite heels tucked into a shopping bag, crammed in there with four more shoe boxes.
On her feet, she's wearing brand new flats, one size larger than her usual.