Approximately once every four calendar months (though I guess it's happened twice so far this winter -- I'd better watch it), I go out with the girls, drink beer, stand in front whooping it up while watching a band, and sneak a smoke or two. I did it a couple of Saturdays ago to see one of my favorite cover bands. In between sets I stepped out into the tundra to smoke that forbidden cigarette.
I get overly excited on these occasions because I love to go out and whoop it up, so much so that I have to keep a tight reign on myself because I have lots of Responsibilities. ANYWAY, I was out having said forbidden fruit, the coveted American Spirit, when a sweet young thang addressed me directly with a smile, "Are you pregnant?"
Wa-Waaah. "No," I hissed, "I'm over forty."
Maybe because I was wearing a top gathered under my hard-working false advertising brassiere that billowed slightly every time the doors opened and closed. Maybe it's because I have a terrible habit of standing with my knees hyperextended backwards thus exaggerating my front side. Maybe it's because I've always had a --- gasp! -- tummy. But still.
Of course she felt like crap and started apologizing like crazy which made me feel bad for two reasons; one because I looked like a geriatric pregnant woman that was publicly smoking, and two because my pointed response was so, so, honest. But ladies, please, never, ever comment on another woman's mid-section (especially when she works out more than she cares to and avoids carbs more than she cares to). It's just a bad idea all around.