Panties, bra - Victoria's Secret
Hat headband - borrowed from Charisma
Have you ever had a really bad hangover? Like, the kind of hangover where you're farting, burping, throwing up and shitting your pants all day while feeling really hungry and tired at the same time?
That's pregnancy, people. For the first three months. Straight.
The first trimester is one long hangover, except that you can't drink, so it's like you're being punished for something you didn't even do. Well, I guess I did do something. One thing led to another and yadda yadda yadda, I got knocked up.
But no wonder I thought I had the stomach flu or food poisoning before I found out.
I'm okay with all that, though. Seriously, I'm okay with all the weird stuff happening on the inside. What I'm not okay with is all the changes on the outside. And I was so nervous to say this, because I know it's strange, because it'll make me sound selfish and ungrateful and bratty. But I have always been different, and even though most women feel beautiful when they're pregnant...
I feel ugly.
I'm not glowing. I don't have rosy cheeks and a cute round belly. I have dark circles under my eyes and a FUPA, like a couple years ago when I was heavier and people asked me if I was pregnant when I wasn't. My boobs are getting bigger, which is nice, but unnecessary seeing as I was a 36DD before anyway. My skin itches all over, and I have back fat and bacne. My grays seem to be coming in faster, and my face seems to be hairier, and my thighs rub together when I walk. None of my pants or shorts fit me anymore, and thank God I'm leaving the corporate world because I'd have to buy all new suiting. The most comfortable thing for me to wear is sweatpants or Brandon's basketball shorts, and fortunately, I'm not embarrassed to go to the grocery store in them. If all of this is happening now, and I'm only just starting my 13th week, I can't imagine what I'll look like by the end of 9 months. And, I'm dreading having to lose the baby weight. Already.
I've never been this vain, honestly. I didn't wear makeup until I was 21, I wore pajamas to class in college, I never blow dry my hair and I stopped wearing heels last year except for special occasions. I go to work with chipped nail polish, I wear sandals without toenail polish, and half the time when guests are over I'm in my bathrobe. Even though I post photos of myself online, I don't need anyone's approval of them to make me feel good about myself. I've weighed 167 and 137, both at the same height of 5'8" and I was proud of my body through it all. So, why can't I be proud of my body now, when it is performing this amazing miracle of creating a life?
Because, and -- I hate to say this, too -- it's out of my control.
I'm a control freak. I really am. Not with other people and their business, but with my own. I've never been one to tell others what to do; their lives are theirs to live, and I am supportive of the decisions my loved ones make. When it comes to my own life, though, it all needs to go according to my plan. I make lists daily, sometimes multiple times a day. To-do lists, grocery lists, lists of goals. Lists for the week, month, year, five years. But my body is changing, and that was not on any list.
I know I'm going to love my child; I already do. Right now, though, I'm having a hard time loving myself.
I know that I'll get there again someday. I know that this will all be worth it in the end, and it'll go by in a blink of an eye and simply be a distant memory. Maybe it's just the hormones talking, and I'll eventually adore my expanding, splotchy body. But, for now: pregnancy sucks.
Just being honest. It's what I do best.
*Photos by Charisma Moran, October 2013, in Orlando.