The Empire Strikes Back

Here's a little tip for you. Never ask me if I'm pregnant. I will eat your face.

I happen to wear a lot of empire-waisted tops. Deal with it. When I think of empire waists, I often am lost in a world of beautiful british accents and pretending I am in love with a man named Edward. Pregnancy is the furthest thing from my mind. However, it seems that everytime I wear a flowy top, I'm always approached about my due date. I could fucking strangle somebody.
I, personally, think that pregnancy is a very private matter. Even if I'm absolutely sure the person I am talking to, is with child, I tend to tip-toe around the fact until the pregnant woman actually verbally confirms my suspicions.
This year alone, I have been approached on two different occasions by two different women, WOMEN mind you. You'd think that the female population would share my qualms on this subject. The first time I was asked if I was going a leave anytime soon. I stood there for a moment, quite confused about the posed question. It was the look of sheer horror on my friend's face that brought me into the light. I, quite dryly, replied, "No, I don't think so."
My friend, Misty, jumped right in, for it was her client that had approached me. Somehow, it's always Misty who's there, comforting me when my self-esteem has taken a blow. Quite shrilly, Misty tried to make excuses for her client, an otherwise kind woman who had obviously rubbed me the wrong way. "It's those darn flowy tops, and the way you were standing! That's all! She didn't mean it! She's old and confused, senile in fact!"
I brushed the encounter off. The lady was old and I'm a forgiving soul. Not. The second time I was chatting with Misty as she shampooed her client. This lady wasn't exactly elderly. She looked at me with a kind smile, "You know, maturity clothes are so cute these days."
Misty got that look on her face again, this time giving me a strained smile that said, "What do you want me to say?!"
I don't exactly remember how I curtailed that particular comment, but I do remember shlumping to Misty after her client left, the Charlie Brown theme music clearly going through my head. "Do I really look pregnant?" I asked, my puppy-dog eyes on the brink of tearing up. Actually, my eyes probably resembled the likes of a pit-bull than a puppy-dog. It was Misty's dear, sweet grandmother who cheered me up. "Honey, you just ignore those old bats. They don't know fashion!" God bless you, Mrs. Girlie.
And here I go on my tirade. Even if I was pregnant, why is it anyone's goddamn business? It's not anyone's right to know what is going on in my uterus. Never ask me if I'm pregnant, it's as simply as that. Not only does it make for a socially awkward situation, it's just fucking rude. Even if I was going into the ninth month and the kid is crowning, do not even try to allude to the fact that I am pregnant. Maybe I'm just fat, and you don't know me. (Insert finger wave and cocking on the hip.) I, like many women, am very sensitive about my appearance and I don't need anyone else trying to tear me down from my very fragilely-built ego. So, in conclusion, never ask me if I'm pregnant. I just like flowy-tops.