Prenatal yoga.

I believe, stubbornly if politically incorrectly, that if I must live with this round but babyless belly, I should be permitted to take advantage of the perks of pregnancy. And while I accept the occasional seat on public transport, one barrier I haven't been able to crack is the glass doored sanctuary that is prenatal yoga. And do I not need relaxation, too? But there's yoga yoga, you say. Yoga for all. Yoga for the masses. But it's not. You've been. It's yoga for the slim. Or at least for the well proportioned. For those women who fit actually not aspirationally (and thus not transparently) into lululemon pants. 

I am not such a woman and yet I want to down this dog, belly hanging low, content in the knowledge that while no amount of sportily layered tanks can conceal the belly gravity insists on revealing I am among friends. Fellow travelers on the no inversions train. Yoga paradise.  

Except, in such classes, they ask -- they always ask -- how far along are you? And sure, I could chirrup "Oh, 15 weeks! Coo! Happy baby babble words!" in a falsely high pitched singsong, a hand perched protectively over my empty protrusion like it's serving a purpose just by hovering atop the Miracle (not) Within (tm). 

But I do not feign pregnancy. I don't need to, usually.  So, instead of posing like the child I'm not bearing, I sit it out. 

And that's okay. There are yoga videos and sparsely populated classes. I'll muddle through. And if that fails, I always *can* fake it. It's not much but it's something.  

As a friend pointed out over lunch today, it could be worse. For this poor pal, flat of belly, cannot even pretend to belong in such a class. If one of her expecting girlfriends goes to prenatal yoga and she wants to tag along, she can't. Because it's never okay to respond to a well intentioned "how far along are you?" by saying "2 weeks?" or musing about the efficacy of protection. In short, she's screwed. And not in the way that earns you a nine month pass to prenatal yoga. 

Even when you see I have twin daughters,

It's never okay to cock your head to the side, all sweet sympathy, and say "twins again?" -- with or without knowing, pantomimed belly pat. 

Photo montage far...

The decisions a pregnant (looking) woman face are many. Diuretics? Hidden elastic panels? Playing along with insensitive if convenient assumptions to jump the restroom line? Behold:

Also. That face. The confused, single-eyed incredulity my daughter perfectly captured? Yeah. That's what I think of The Question. 

Just a week.

But it's quints.  Want to feel them kick?

Just because I wore an empire waisted dress doesn't mean I was asking for it.

That is all.

402 months. And counting.

I am not pregnant.  Yes, I'm sure.  How sure?  Hysterectomy sure.

Nevertheless, I get asked fairly routinely how far along I am.  For all sorts of reasons my belly is round and cute and appears to be filled enticingly with baby.  It's not.  It's filled with pain.  And so my mouth is filled with sassy rejoinder.  Or, at least, I want it to be.  Usually I mumble "Oh, uh, I'm not pregnant.  Sorry."

I'm not sorry.  I'm sorry you don't know that you never ask a woman how far along she is when she hasn't opened the conversation with, "I am pregnant.  Do you want to know how far along I am?"

And so, below is a collection of replies, retorts, and rebukes leveled -- hypothetically or actually -- against such inquirers.