Writer Amanda Hirsch shares the joys of being 29 weeks pregnant.
My cankles are out of control. The only shoes that fit are clogs, without socks — which makes me feel super pretty when I’m trying to spruce up for my husband’s birthday dinner at a fancy NYC steakhouse. I’d normally wear a skirt for such an occasion, some pantyhose — today I’m in leggings and clogs. My dress coat doesn’t button over my gigantic bosom. I hope the red lipstick and cute necklace are enough to make me look at least somewhat…what, attractive? More like…part of civilization. I feel wild, feral, trying to pass as an insider when really I’m ill suited to anything other than sweatpants and tshirts — my native garb.
Did I mention my cankles? I can FEEL them, that’s how bad the swelling is. My feet are huge too — even my toes are fat. “It’s all normal,” my doctor reassures me, as is the sciatic pain radiating from my left glute down my thigh…between this pain and the extra 30 pounds of weight concentrated in my boob/belly region, my walk has morphed into a slow waddle. My legs are still skinny as ever, so I feel (look?) like a top-heavy chicken. It’s a miracle when I don’t topple forward.
And heartburn. Did I mention the heartburn?
I’m meeting my husband at a fancy hotel bar before the fancy steakhouse, where I will drink a fancy club soda with lime and not the martini I covet. I will try to key in to that pregnant glow, that goddess vibe, instead of the slinky sexy feeling I’m used to going for at such places. But I don’t feel like a goddess. I feel like a cow.
A cow with cankles.