The cheongsam story

I've been meaning to write this story for ages, but underestimated the procrastinating power of a brain steeped in maternal hormones (well that's my line and I'm sticking to it.)

Way back in April, we went out to the French Cafe for Mark's birthday. I was only 6 months pregnant but was already sporting a respectable bump, one that wouldn't fit into most of the 'posh' clothes in my wardrobe. (The French Cafe is one of the most elegant restaurants in Auckland). Then I found my grandma's vintage cheongsam, which she made for herself out of cool retro fabric (well ok, it wasn't retro then - it was the height of fashion) and which has been hanging in my wardrobe waiting for the waist to be taken in. I zipped myself in and admired the view in my mirror - it fit my new curves with a surgical precision.

I arrived at the restaurant feeling ultra chic and sat down at our intimate table opposite my husband, who had shaved for the occasion and therefore was looking particularly hot. We started conversing in the low tones one reserves for such rarefied environments. The waiter glided in with the first course of our degustation menu. It was then that I noticed that the side zip on my grandma's dress was sliding ever-so-subtly southwards. Luckily, the table to my right was unoccupied and the heater was on, meaning I could easily hide the slippage.  I sat up straight and tugged the zip back up.

This started a battle of wills. Each of the nine courses would arrive and be consumed with melting, admiring tenderness by myself and Mark.  (Yes, the food is that good). The zip would sidle south trying not to be noticed; I would, similarly subtly, encourage it north. Unfortunately simple physics was against me. Baby+ food in stomach = bigger waistline, and by course number five the zip simply refused to budge from its position somewhere near my panty line. I grumpily put on my jacket for the remainder of the meal to avoid giving the waiter/other diners an undeserved eyeful. Not that the waiter would have given any sign that he was in the least bothered - it was the French Cafe after all.

Moral of the story? Wear only stretchy things when pregnant. And don't be too vain.