Stretch

It finally happened. After 30 weeks and 3 days of flawless, gorgeous skin covering my belly, they came. A nice little crop of stretch marks have appeared just above my bikini line. This does not please me. I'm not interested in battle wounds. I'm interested in being exceedingly pretty.

OK, I'm exaggerating a bit (a lot). But still, I really don't like it. I'm already big, cumbersome, awkward, and cranky about 98.7% of the time. Now I get some purple road maps to Crazyville to boot?

I am aware there was little to nothing I could have done to prevent this particular side-effect of pregnancy. The cocoa and shea butter I've been lathering on since the 4th month I was pregnant were nice effort, but ultimately proved futile. Of course they did. Stretch marks laugh at lotions and potions. Stretch marks answer to genetics. My mom had them when she was pregnant with me, so it was pretty likely I'd get them, too. Hell, I got them during puberty when my boobal region grew faster than my poor skin could accommodate.

Still, I had maintained the small hope I'd escape this particular fate - or that I'd at least get farther along. I have the feeling it's all downhill from here. In fact, I'm pretty sure that in the time it's taken me to write this I've gotten at least 472 more stretch marks. Clearly, I need to up the ante: from now on I use TWICE as much shea butter. See if I can stop these suckers from getting any worse. Don't hold your breath, people.