Your Bump-it Is Showing

I bought something dorky the other day at the grocery. An impulse buy. I bought a set of Bump-its. Guys, you're saying, "What's that?". Women your saying, "I wonder if they work?". I'm saying, for me, Bump-it was a bad choice.

I don't have very thick hair. Now postpartum, I have even less. Yes, it's coming back in but it looks like someone took a weed wacker to my hair line. So anyways, these Bump-its (I made fun of my mom for being mildly interested in them when she saw them on an info-mercial one day) were now being mindlessly thrown into my cart. I could always use a little more volume, I told myself.

Now for the story.

I need breaks from my kids. I am a 24/7 stay-at-home mom. Some days it just hits me. I must leave the house before I go nut-house crazy or go on strike. So I bolt, leaving the kids with my husband of course, so that means I must repress all feelings of bolting until the weekend. I bolt to where ever the hell I can go. Do I care? Not really. A quick stop at a convenience store for a 32oz. iced tea (unsweetened) but then I back it up with some much earned crap food. I try to reach for the protein bar, but my PMS is saying cupcakes. Guess who wins?

I go to Wal-Mart. Why? Why do I go there? Lauren, this is not a relaxing atmosphere. There is no soft music, only screaming children who seem to have parents wearing ear plugs. What aisle are those on again? Oh, right. You can't hear me? Genius. Stress level not going down. Trust me, I know about screaming kids...two 3 year olds and a nearly 1 year old. I get it. It happens. But it should not happen when I need a break. I know, I know, I asked for it by stepping foot in this super store jungle.

I walk over to the clothing department. I grab an arm-full of things. Summer dresses, tanks, t-shirts, quite a load. I don't normally buy clothes at Wal-Mart, just 'cause they don't stay together, but I was feeling adventurous, so...so, I thought I would torture myself. Little did I know the fun that lie ahead of me.

I walk up to the fitting room desk. It was a madhouse. There at a tiny desk, over-wrought with dressing room paraphernalia, was an older woman talking on a phone- old school phone, like the one I grew up with. Long stretchy, curly cord? Yes, you know. So, I wait patiently...for a minute. I stand and wait for her to address me. I listen to her conversation. It sounded like a non-Wal-Marty call. I was irritated. What? This is not time to catch up with Verna or to check what time the next bridge game is at the senior center. I'm a tired mom who needs to be let into a dressing room. It felt like 10 minutes, but I highly doubt that. It was more around three. She finally looks up at me, like I had just suddenly appeared or something, but I'm thinking its all an act. I mean, my eyes had been boring into her coiffed wig since the beginning of time, I know she knew I was there. Surprise! It's me! Haggard mommy.

She covers the phone with one hand, lowers it, scowls and then proceeds to ask how many garments I have. (Don't let Verna know you're at work!) I fumble through the now-tangled hangers of my "made in Malaysia" merchandise, to find I have nine items.

Her face drops. "You're only really allowed six." She clicks her tongue.

I bore even deeper into her wig, now penetrating to the scalp. It must of worked because then she says, "Okay, you can take nine, but only if you put them away when you are done."

I chuckle to myself. This is ridiculous. Isn't this the place that has their employees wear vests with "May I help you?" stamped on the back? It's more like "Help Yourself", but there aren't any cookies or punch laying round. "Help Yourself to Helping ME Out" is more like it. Maybe I could snag a fruit snack from that poor screaming kid over there.

Alright! Time for a mommy treat. Boy, was I going to be disappointed by this "treat". I should have taken the fruit snacks and ran. A Wal-Mart dressing room is never a treat. I do not understand the dressing room phenomenon. Why, oh why do they use those awful lights that somehow cast the most hideous shadow on my cellulite. I know it's there. I don't like it. I try to get rid of it. Do you want to sell clothes, Wal-Mart? Seriously. Where is the salesmanship in that?

I try on all NINE garments. With each one, I got more and more sad. It was awful. Nothing fit, everything was stupid. I tried on a dress that looked really cute on the hanger, but had horizontal lines so close together that it hurt my eyes to look at myself in the mirror. Not to mention, I am trying on all these clothes with my running shoes on and jeans down around my ankles, because I am too lazy to take off my shoes to remove my jeans. There is not a bit of clothing out there that looks good on anyone with their ankles looking like they're ready to go bungee jumping. Heidi Klum couldn't pull it off...okay, maybe she could.

So there I stand, I just yanked another wretched piece of wholesale haute couture over my head, when my Bump-it, (yes, I wore a Bump-it to Wal-mart, but didn't bother with makeup) gets snagged and dislodged enough to become crooked and now showing itself. I was too tired and frustrated to care, so I just left it. I hung up my clothes, grudgingly. I walked out, Bump-it exposed and all and went to lazily hang up my garments on the wrong racks because I just didn't give a, you know. I wanted to take all NINE of my clothing items and chuck them right at that crabby old woman's head. I really wanted to. I just wanted to pile them on top of her head, take that extra long telephone cord and strap them down, like she was going for a long cross country adventure. Horrible. I know. See what happens when your Bump-it is showing?

I walked around Wal-Mart so long and I got so tired that when I finally made it home with no purchases and extremely sore legs, I was happy to see my kids and hubby but not cook dinner for them. It was kinda a lose/lose situation except for the laugh I get every time I think of my Bump-it.