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If a girl hates leggings in civilian life, why should she suddenly assume some Marcel Marceau identity at eighteen weeks?I never imagined that I could look better and revel in dressing up as an urban belly dancer/Storyville Madam/Grecian naiad when I was pregnant, but it happened.Yet this ought to be the one moment in life when you can truly be outrageously, unapologetically, perhaps shockingly yourself.I love to imagine that the gusto, sensuality, abundance, and unpredictable volatility of being pregnant alters a woman and stays with her forever.

I will tell anyone in the first year of mothering to hang on to her pregnancy rights (the cravings, the emotions, the attitude, and, yes, even those ten pounds) and to fixate less on going back to what she was before. You can't be less now; you have come through your fertility rites, and, frankly, size 6 holds little substance. This is the most glorious moment to be all of your many selves.In offices we are praised for carrying small, carrying neat, and, implicitly, performing with the same vigor as nonpregnant coworkers.Never mind that we might want to slam the door shut and lie down on the floor, or wear desert boots instead of pumps that pinch a swollen foot.When I look at career gear in maternity stores, it always strikes me as a uniform of dreary concealment with a heavy emphasis on business shirts.Worn, one presumes, to assert the fact that a woman loaded up with hormones can still mean business.

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