Pregnant and Depressed
The mannequins inside A Pea in the Pod, a maternity store in Los Angeles, showed off their bumps in slinky sundresses and chambray rompers. The clerk asked whether I’d been in before. I hadn’t. It was the end of my first trimester, and I was returning jeans I had ordered online. I had not chosen my pre-pregnancy size but a size up (a mistake, the clerk told me), yet the denim’s bad fit—it bunched at my knees—was the least of my problems. When the jeans arrived, I’d been shocked by the bandage-colored elastic that stretched above the waistband, empty casing for a giant sausage. Reluctantly, I’d tugged them on, but the elastic showed even through a black T-shirt. Jeans would be like brie or sushi, something I’d do without for the next six months.
At A Pea in the Pod, I brought a romper I’d seen on a mannequin into the fitting room, along with a few body-con dresses. AsthisI caught myself thinking. , I told myself. I could hear the blood in my brain pulsing as it churned up negative thoughts—obsessive, caustic, frightening.
