Well, thanks to this pregnancy increasing my bra size, I have now entered a new and scary phase of my life: the plus-size department. It just sort of happened one day. No fanfare, no confetti. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it sort of seems like a rite-of-passage was in order. After all, if I have to put up with enormous jugs from now on, I may as well get to throw myself a party, right? We celebrate losing our first tooth. We celebrate when girls reach womanhood. We celebrate driver’s licenses, and legal drinking age, and half a dozen other pivotal moments in our lives. How about this one? Swept under the carpet like so many Big Mac crumbs… 

Have you ever noticed that women’s plus sizes actually have a little (W) next to the size number? Instead of size 16, the tag will read “16W.” Apparently, that is because it is no longer P.C. to refer to “Plus Sizes,” so they now call them “Women’s Sizes.” The problem is, if you walk into a department store and casually (quietly) ask a clerk to direct you to the “women’s sizes,” he/she inevitably points straight at Misses/Petites. Because, after all, don’t women commonly wear these sizes? Then you have to go through the emabarrassing situation of explaining that the clothes you’re shopping for are, in fact, intended for your own gargantuan ass and not for one of your skinny imaginary friends.

And what’s with this terminology anyway? “Women’s Sizes” just sounds stupid. It’s like they’re saying, “Well, even though you wear the belt size “Equator,” we here at Macy’s still think you are a WOMAN…yes that’s it, a woman…and definitely not a sasquatch…see how P.C. and accepting we are???”