28 February 2013

This Isn't TV, and I'm Not a Celebrity

I wasn't underweight at the start of this pregnancy.  I didn't keep up a healthy cardio routine and eat lots of health food.  I do not have stick arms and stick legs, a perky little ass, modestly sized tits, and a taut, shiny baby belly that sparkles and sprouts unicorns every time the baby kicks.

Oh, no.

Let me tell you about my bump.

My bump rolls and thunks like I have an alien eating me from the inside out.  Over it is a decent, oddly shaped layer of squishy fat and wiggly skin.  That same layer pads my growing ass, and I have armpit-fat that could evacuate a beach.  Part of that is a result of my massively growing boobs - guys, these are not Pamela boobs.  These are big, swollen, wobbling things with a bonus boob on the end of each one - oh, excuse me, I mean GIANT nipples.

My only stretch marks to date are on my thighs, and I have no idea when they got there.

I am kind of beginning to understand why it used to be that women were expected to be modest and quiet about their pregnancies.  It kind of makes your body gross.

Oh, I know, I'm supposed to just fucking adore my body right now, right?

Goo coming out my bewbs?  MIRACLE OF LIFE!  Swelling stomach that can high five you back?  Kind of... cool...  Gassy, squishy, and hairy?  Oh, what, this isn't sounding fun anymore?

There are times I feel pretty.  When I have a particularly flattering maternity shirt on (I never buy myself clothes, so that's a big deal).  When I am well-rested and don't have big bags under my eyes from just getting off work at 7 AM in the morning.  When I brush my hair.

All I know is, the people pestering me for pregnancy photos all the time, who want me to text them pictures so they can show all their friends and family how bloated with spawn I am, and the one particular individual who thinks nude/topless photos would be a terrific idea (I don't care if you photographed an underweight model covering her boobies - you'd need four hands to make mine tasteful)...

All you folks need to understand what you are in for.

Understand what you're asking me to do.

And don't bitch if your picture involves a hearty use of middle finger.  I don't photograph YOUR bodily functions, you know.

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