I admit, I'm often stumped by fashion. The tunic? The TUNIC? I hate the tunic. I hate the pleated at the ribcage, voluminous yards--nay--acres of fabric hiding...what exactly? A baby bump? A perfectly sculpted, by hours in the gym, six pack? A blooming onion from your lunch? Who knows what could be hiding under there?

From this awesome post over on Babble:

I began to wonder if I was the only one aware of this fact, if the rest of the world was experiencing a bout of maternity-fashion amnesia. How could I be the only one who noticed how the svelte looked questionably maternal in these styles, the curvy and full-figured, positively preggers?

Oh, sing it, Kim, sing it. As a proud, card-carrying member of the curvy, full-figured nation, I recently bought a very cute little black number with white polka dots. Very boobsome and perfect graphic print to peek out from under a light shrug; it is, as my grandmother likes to say, just the thing all the kids are wearing these days. And because I'm weirdly impatient while shopping, I find it less frustrating to buy and return things than to actually take the time to undress in a stall and try something on. Because you know that those lights in the changing rooms are magical and I'll look like a goddess in the three-way mirror and then a troll doll once I get home.

And also, if I'm going to discover that a pair of jeans are tragic, I'd much prefer to discover this in the sanctuary of my bedroom where I can dramatically throw myself across the bed and weep into the pudgy stomach of my stuffed bear Monty (don't you judge). So naturally, I threw said dotty top into my luggage, tags still attached. The fatal error here is that I then found a red shrug that perfectly matched a pair of slutty red patent open-toed Steve Madden heels and it was, dear reader, on. The dotty top was a lock.

Except that when I threw it on in the hotel room, and strutted before the full length mirror in my saucy little shoes, I exactly looked like a guest on the Jerry Springer show, the kind of strumpet that comes out to inform the first guest that their man done knock me up and he's mah baby's daddy.

Apparently what had been posing as a slightly long and cute camisole was in fact a fucking tunic. Sadly, I had left the stuffed bear at home.

"Does this make me look pregnant?" I said, when a friend stopped by. "No no," they soothed, "Here, sit down. Can I get you something to drink? Something with folic acid?" Fine, whatever, smart ass. I let myself believe that the shoes, the shoes would prove to the world that no, that wasn't a healthy glow, that was just my full, luscious self.

And then when I got home and looked at the pictures?  Clearly beginning my second trimester. The pictures were so awful, I fear putting them on Flickr, lest I start receiving spam from Baby Gap.

I am drawing a line right here. No more tunics! Not now. Not ever. Tunics are bad fashion. And don't even get me STARTED about the Maxi dress. --Weetabix