No bun in this oven

So here's a funny story about my shirt. (I can tell you stories about a lot of my shirts, but this one's funny where as others are just sad.) My mom went shopping last Friday and, like she does occassionally, came home with a shirt she thought I'd like. Her success in finding something pleasing to me varies. Sometimes her finds end up on a back shelf in my closet, but sometimes she comes home with a treasure. Her most recent purchase for me was a chocolate brown corduroy snap-up shirt and it's very cute. I wore it on Saturday.

This morning, I decided I wear it to work. I asked my friend Beverly to grab it out of my closet and she came into the bathroom a few minutes later holding it with a big smile on her face. "Do you know what this shirt is?" she asked.

"Duh. It's corduroy," I replied.

"Yeah... It's a maternity shirt."

COME ON, MOM. What are you trying to do to me?! Give me an additional complex? Beverly tried to assure me that maternity clothes these days are actually really cute, but here's the thing: It doesn't matter if they're absolutely adorable and fit me like a glove. It's a matter of pride! I can't start shopping in the maternity section.

So I wore the shirt anyway. Yes, I'm sitting here in my brown, corduroy maternity get-up typing this. My ego has been taken down a few notches because I'm WEARING A PREGNANT WOMAN'S SHIRT and what's worse, I'm not sure yet if my mom actually was aware she was buying maternity apparel or if she specifically shopped in that section for me. Either way, we're going to have to have a discussion about this when I see her tonight, which will probably end up with her rolling on the floor laughing.