It's nature's cruel joke that a pregnant woman has decreased ability to hold onto things, less grace in general, and that the floor where so many things fall out of my hands, out of my reach, is so very far away. My toddler isn't quite old enough to understand my requests for help, and so if it isn't harmful to him or the dogs, I say SCREW IT! Let my floor be littered with stuff.
And, if I cannot see the stain on my shirt when I look down, I request permission from the fashion police to pretend it's not there. I guess I run into or press up against stuff that is leaving stains on my shirts, and...yeah. If I can't see it unless it's in the mirror, I want to live in denial of its existence. Let me pretend that I have my act together and look chic.