I pulled on the bikini I’d purchased two years ago, a mere month or two before learning I was pregnant. This was to be my first time finally wearing it. I looked at myself in the full-length mirror and I grabbed at my sides and I tilted my head as if that would change what I was seeing and finally I walked into Michael’s home office.
“Does this look okay, or have I gained too much weight to pull it off?” (Note: I had only gained a handful of pounds; the real issue was that my weight had shifted.)
“You look fine,” said Michael.
In my mind, “fine” was not a ringing endorsement. I assumed that what “fine” really meant was “not completely horrific / I don’t think anyone’s eyes will melt and run down their faces when they see you.” I pushed him more. “I’m serious, Michael. Be honest with me. Should I wear a one-piece instead?”
I did not want to wear a one-piece instead. It had taken me 10 minutes to get into the bikini top successfully.
“No. What you’re wearing is fine,” he re-asserted (and there was that word again). I squeezed my belly button area between my fingers. I pretended it was a hungry mouth and I made it talk.