I’m ten minutes away from legwarmers
Ok: I hate being pregnant. I know there are some women who get all ecstatic and rejuvenated and glowy, but that’s not me. I’m not glowy. I’m ashen and sullen and there’s a permanent crease between my eyebrows. I hate being sick, that’s for sure, but that ends (as it has, thank you), and I still hate it. I do sort of like the ultrasounds, but honestly that’s just a science geek thing and I would be just as satisfied watching that NOVA special about pregnancy. It’s the lumpiness, the frumpiness, and the clothes, really, that I hate. As soon as I get pregnant I not only get the belly, but also sprout some love handles and generally give off a Bosc vibe. No good. And these clothes — can someone please make maternity pants that don’t fall down? I think I need maternity suspenders.
It’s really just that it’s impossible to look hip and sexy when you’re pregnant. (Or, at least, when I’m pregnant.) Any attempts at hipness somehow just up the schlub factor. There’s no getting around it: me pregnant = schlubby. And it’s just depressing. I know I’ve got at least another year of wearing someone else’s body. I’m trying to make the best of it, but I just want it to be May already (or May 2011). This time I didn’t even move my regular clothes out of the closet; I just shoved the stupid maternity stuff into a big pile in the closet and I just grab whatever’s on top.
Lately I’ve been trying to distract from the schlub factor and burgeoning midsection by clever accessorizing. I’m wearing very large necklaces, for instance. And capris with striped socks. I’ve starting wearing patchouli again; maybe someone will become so distracted by the scent of dirt and pine essence that they won’t notice I’m pregnant. The other day I wore (really) a paisley headscarf that (with the striped socks) made me look like Rhoda Morgenstern on crack, but I think it may have been sufficiently distracting.
When this is all over I’m buying matching lingerie and burning the maternity crap in a bonfire.