For most of my life, I have been blessed weight-wise.  I have been able to eat anything and everything, as much or as little, and I would not suffer from any negative ramifications.  Food hasn’t really been a big ‘thing’ in my life-it’s not my friend, I don’t eat when I’m sad or happy, to celebrate or to battle depression.  I have plenty of pharmaceuticals that achieve those things.  So what I eat and my activity level have not been much of an issue.Until I moved here.  As is known, I’m here, living a sort of controlled life in paradise, otherwise known as ‘getting back on my feet.’  One part of this project of moving me back into regular society has been getting a job.  The first one I had lasted two months.  It was a temp assignment, but I eventually got ‘let go’ because the position required a level of perkiness I just could not live up to.  Lord knows I tried.  So I got a different job.  It’s a perfect ‘introductory’ position that has been maneuvering me back into the way most people live their lives.  My responsibilities are extremely few, and none of them is a life or death matter.  I’ve  been given the time to update my resume and cover letter, and it’s letting me begin pursuing that which I REALLY want to be doing, which is working from home as a freelance commercial writer.  I have other things to do work-wise, but making sure the phone is answered my #1 priority task.  It’s an unnecessary job that’s somehow deemed extremely important-being the first point of contact for people walking in.  BEING here is pretty much the most important thing.  Literally.  I’m one step away from just being a paid mannequin.Well, BEING here has had numerous downfalls, but the biggest one by far is that I’m stuck sitting here all day.  Sitting around can really put on the pounds, I’ve found.  Still, I’ve stayed thin doing less.  I exercise.  I don’t eat much.  I don’t drink anymore.  This should not be happening!  Sadly, sitting here, watching the clock mark that my 20’s are becoming and ever more distant dream, seems to have also have brought my metabolism to a screeching halt. By nature, I’m something of a tomboy, so apparently nature thought it would be a funny joke if put all the weight I gained on my body would be just like if I were a guy.  You know, the ‘apple’ shaped body, where the first place any ounce goes is right to the gut.  Just like a guy.  The only difference is a guy can put on a larger pair of pants, button up a bigger shirt, and he’s fine.  Better than fine.  He’s doing well!  Just look at him-he’s not starving.  A guy can be quite overweight and look just fine.  They’ve got a LOT of leeway here.  Women, unfortunately, don’t get off so easy.  We don’t have that ‘just buy a bigger button down shirt’ option.  The current fashion trends have been baby doll tops for the last several years, and they only exacerbate the problem.  And you know what that does to a girl like me?  It brings one thing:  “THE QUESTION.”“When are you due?”  Due?  One look in the mirror and all of those extra pounds that makes your boyfriend/fiancé/husband a little pudgy but still cute and perfectly loveable and good looking only seems to do one thing for you.  It makes you look pregnant.  And for some reason, this seems to be a perfectly acceptable question for ANYONE to ask you. I know of no other question that can ruin your day so quickly.  There is no good retort, no good comeback to put that person in his/her place.  Really, your only defense is to say “Actually, I’m not pregnant,” and it makes the other person REALLY embarrassed.  Still, it doesn’t do a whole lot for your self esteem, the masses of society thinking you’re pregnant, when the real truth is your genetic makeup just decided it liked apples more than pears.  It sucks.  And I’m not even overweight!  I fit in the scales for my height and everything.  Goodness, you’d think after the mind they gave me, all filled with who knows what but guaranteed ‘uniqueness,’ you’d think I’d get a break in the body department.  I guess I did, for a while, and I’m glad in hindsight of how I looked back then.  It would be one of my three genie wishes to look like that again.Oh well.  It is what it is.  After spending decades hating a perfectly good, useful and lithe body, I’m now here with my baby guy.  Karma can be a bitch.  I know I can deal with this, though.  It’s not that big a deal.But still, for the sake of all apple shaped women everywhere, PLEASE, PLEASE PLEASE do not EVER ask a female when she’s ‘due’ unless she has expressly indicated that she is, in fact, pregnant.  We have enough things to deal with; please do not automatically wreck our self-esteem on top of it all.  It’s not nice, and, for the most part, it’s not our fault.  We’re NOT lying around eating boxes of Krispy Cremes in front of the TV; we’re doing everything we can to rid ourselves of this ‘belly fat.’  We are not exactly thrilled about this situation either; however, please keep the inquisitiveness to yourself.  I mean, it is a pretty nosy question to be asking in the first place, don’t you think?  I am sure if one is really pregnant, you will be  barraged with a discussion of due dates and stuff like that.  Unless it really is that situation and we really are pregnant, however, no matter what tone you were trying to convey like ‘I was just trying to be nice,’ or ‘ I was just trying to have a conversation,’ please, just do not use it anymore.  You’ll just hurt someone’s feelings and make yourself look like a fool.