I was shamed by a cashier at Asda this week, readers. Aloud. Along with the latest edition of Glamour magazine I was purchasing some sundries, which may or may not have included Size 1 nappies, Size 6 pull-up pants, double-strength heartburn tablets, maternity pads, massive pants and assorted medicinal items (I’m taking no chances with the hospital bag, after having to leave the last-minute packing to Alex last time and subsequently rocking up for Phoebe’s birth with just a pair of Spanx, a pack of panty-liners, a pair of non-maternity leggings and a poncho).
Anyway, the checkout lady looked at the magazine, looked at my stomach and my hospital bag goodies, and snorted.
“Glamour?!” she cried, in mocking disbelief. “What do you want with Glamour magazine?!”
I laughed it off as I was too busy trying to hide some of the more embarrassing items at the bottom of the see-through shopping bags, but as I drove home it prompted a thought spiral.
- She has a point though.
- Am I too old for Glamour magazine now? At 32 and a pregnant mother, am I no longer their desired audience? Depressing.
- But isn’t that sort of my decision to make?
- I mean, the articles all bang on about millennials want this and millennials desire that, and by the skin of my teeth, I’m a millennial, right?
- And it’s MY choice to read the magazine, thereby appointing myself as their actual audience.
- Why the hell do I care what that old lady thought about me? I deliberately chose her checkout because she looked in the least likely position to judge me on my purchases.
- OH MY GOD THE MATERNITY PADS ARE SITTING ON THE BONNET.
They’d fallen out of the bag when I was looking for my keys.
ANYWAY. After I’d got home and made myself a soothing cup of decaf tea and chowed down on a KitKat, I realised that actually, I felt empowered.
I may not be going to any festivals this year, I may have no immediate need for a bikini-body diet (or indeed, a bikini-body), and I anticipate being severely limited by this season’s fashions depending on whether or not I can breastfeed in them, BUT I can still eke out my own special brand of style and glamour. I can still feel like me, and I can still aspire to look and feel great. It’s just that I happen to have the pleasing fall-back position of not really giving a shit if I don’t.
So pretty mama, on Mother’s Day or any day, don’t let anyone kill your buzz.