Today on Slate, I find an entirely new way to humiliate myself, i.e. I admit that my pregnancy physique is far from fit and I have a complex about it. I’m posting this link WHILE eating pizza and watching Gilmore Girls, by the way. This week my editor is out of the office, and I have been getting AROUND the magazine, and it’s been great. Here’s a quote!
My posterior—never petite—has, in what I am pretty sure is a miracle of medical science, kept protrusion-pace with my belly in such direct proportion that I am not so much upset as impressed. My “bump” is more of a Jabba-the-Hut-esque event,rivaled on my front only by my breasts, each of which is now the spitting image ofLord Voldemort’s head. And don’t get me started on my “glow.” Like many pregnant women, I’ve become anemic, so between the purple under-eye circles and the impressive array of graphic track marks from all the blood draws, I look like a cross between Gareth Keenan from the British Office and the cast of Trainspotting—except, you know, fat.
When you see me coming your way, better give me plenty space, etc, etc, etc.