I'm not pregnant. I'm fat.

Three weeks into a three-times-a-week gym regimen. I'm feeling stronger. And, hey! I need a belt for my "fat days" jeans.

I was, in fact, wearing them yesterday with an old baseball jersey of mine. Not glamourous, but I was comfortable.

So when a mom from the nursery school saw me at the library and asked, "When are you due?" I sucked in my breath and managed a lighthearted, "Two-and-a half years ago." She mutters an apology and said that it must have been what I was wearing that day. Sure.

I picked up my kids from school and this other mom I know said, "Whoa! Are you pregnant with your fourth?" Holy Mary, full of grace; don't let me punch her in the face. "No," I said rather curtly.

But then she went on. "How many kids do you have?"

"Three."

"Then you're pregnant with your fourth," she insisted.

"No, I'm not."

She breathes a sigh of frustration with me, "C'mon. What's after 3? Four! You're pregnant with your fourth!"

Now it was my turn to roll my eyes and I said, slowly (hoping she'd understand what I was saying...in English), "I'm not pregnant with my fourth because I. Am. Not. Pregnant."

And at that, she paused, wide-mouthed, quickly shut her big pie-hole and muttered, "Sorry" as she pushed her stroller away.

I was - and still am - so depressed and discouraged. I want to dust off my old Exploited records and wallow in anger. If only I had a record player.

So let this be a lesson to you all. NEVER ask a woman if she's pregnant. It is soooo rude. And, frankly, it's none of your effing business.

Arrrgh.

And here's an article telling me I'm doubly cursed. All those pastizzi slowed down my metabolism to a crawl when I hit 35.