Preggo Watch: I Flashed The Intern

When I was a teenager, I wasn’t a fan of jeans. There was something about the thick, heavy material that made me feel even heavier than my obsessed-with-being-thin-teen-mind could handle. I thought my arse looked terrible in them, and so I avoided them completely. Instead, I wore dancer’s clothes – thin, baggy combats and fancy tracksuits that you could only buy in an actual sports store. My arse and I were content.

Somewhere in my mid 20s, I gave in. Jeans weren’t all the same any more; they were thinner, longer, boot cut, slung low on the hips and they made sense to me again. I went to Nude on Liffey Street and tried on a few pairs. The sales assistant said; ‘Not being a lesbian or anything, but your arse looks great in them’.  SOLD. I bought three pairs.

But now that I’m pregnant, the aversion has returned. Preggo jeans and I have had a major falling out. The two pairs I had since Preggo The First are a size 12, and I don’t recall them being a problem, but they have literally been falling off my arse and down from my front for the last few months. ‘You’ll need them in a few months’ my mother advised. ‘You’ll grow into them’. But I haven’t, they make me feel bigger than I necessarily am and what pregnant woman needs that? In fact, they are so ill-fitting that I can pull them up and down when using the toilet, without having to open any buttons or zips.

‘Perhaps they aren’t the right size!!’, you’re yelling at me. I CAN HEAR YOU. Not so, my friends, not so. I did read on a few maternity wear sites that you should buy the size that you were pre-getting-knocked-up, and I WAS a size 10. So off I popped to H&M yesterday in Swords Pavilions (PS: Why is the maternity section the one part of the store that is completely squished together? A bit of space between the rails wouldn’t go amiss, you weirdos) – and bought a pair of size 10 maternity jeans. Of COURSE I didn’t try them on until I got home because I had Jacob with me, and when I did, guess what? They were too bleedin’ tight. They go on and all, but I’ll be hating them into an hour of wearing them because bump and I will be too uncomfortable. And I’ll definitely have to open buttons and zips to go to the loo, a practice which I am now completely unfamiliar with.

In the office last week, I was still wearing the non-fitting size 12 jeans. I was also wearing VERY red shiny underwear. Our intern from last year, Super Dave, had come back to do some training with us, and as I came out of the toilets, he asked me how the bump was. ‘Great!’ says I, pulling open my cardigan to properly see the bump beneath. ‘Getting very bumpy, thanks!’

Super Dave smiled and got back to work. I adjusted my jeans (as one constantly does), before sitting down and there it was: a great expanse of red satin knickers gaping through where preggo jeans should have been. I DID open them that day to go to the loo, and so unusual was it, that I never bothered to close them back up again.

I fucking hate jeans…




[Don’t miss ‘Preggo Watch: Pissing and Moaning’!]