Tina Rowley

writer + (performer) + [space left open for surprises]

you ain't got no alibi, maternity pants

What's happening is this: I have suddenly begun to show. I was at a record store day before yesterday and idly put my hands on the upper part of my belly. And it felt not like squishy regular belly, but taut, drumlike, baby-packing.

I was startled, and then delighted, and then apologetic towards my child because the record store was playing very loud, very scary music. Until I felt the taut drumminess of my belly I had forgotten that I was concealing a person underneath my sweater - a person who may have musical tastes, which may have been being trod upon. Also, who knows how far along the ears are? The ears could have been like, you know what? No. We're not going to get any more developed. No. Screw you.

And then yesterday, I ran into a pants issue. Other than my sweatpants, and one other miscellaneous stretchy pair of nice pants, I'm coming up empty with pants that fit. I put on a pair of jeans and then wore them unzipped with the button and buttonhole connected by a string, like some sort of trashy, retarded Ellie May Clampett. Let it be known, of course, that my shirt was LONG. But you carry yourself differently when you know you have something scandalously pitiful going on at your waistband.

I understand now that it's time. But I don't want it to be time. I don't want it to be time for these:

And it can never be time for these:

And even though these are good from the elastic down, and nobody would see the elastic part, the elastic part depresses me. Tell me it doesn't depress you:

And those comparatively cute corduroy maternity pants cost $185, to which I say Stop That.

What I want to spend my money on is this:

Shut up, I like them.