A t a certain point in my pregnancy, Instagram began to bombard me with pictures of a pregnant Margot Robbie . It felt like my feed was trolling me in a particularly mean way: hey, rapidly expanding lady, wanna see how the most beautiful woman in the world is handling all of this? And I did. After a while, I assume my feed became self-fulfilling: I kept looking at pictures of Robbie, my glowing pregnancy nemesis, so the algorithm offered me more and more.
I wanted to see how she looked; I wanted to know what she was wearing. (Spoiler alert: she looked amazing, obvs.) Margot has had her baby now , but still she pops up on the grid.
She’s rocking a roomy pair of dungas and sunglasses, looking chic and slightly knackered, strolling alongside her husband who is pushing the pram. And I am still here, wondering what on earth to wear . Because although I have been given lots of hard-earned wisdom and advice during my pregnancy (some solicited, some not), no one warned me that putting together a decent outfit would become an undertaking more fraught than the politics around having an epidural.
Of course – duh – it shouldn’t have come as a surprise that growing a human would mean my body would change and my normal clothes would no longer fit me. Slightly unfair, maybe, given I’ve also been permanently pooped on account of experiencing the emotional fragility of a 13-year-old girl whose favourite boyband has just split up. But par for the course.
It annoyed me from a financia.