“Hey Boo, what do you think of this new top I just bought?”, I asked him as he was working on our deck. I twirled around and the purple top lifted slightly with the breeze.

With barely a glance, he answered, “Looks good. Great colour.”

“You didn’t even look. Does it make me look fat?”

There it was. The question every husband dreads hearing. Boo is a smart man. He immediately put down his drill, looked up, and met my eyes.

“Nah. But I like how it makes the McGuffies (our term of endearment for my boobs) look enormous.”

“You’re a pervert. But I love ya.”

I didn’t give the conversation much more thought as I headed into town to have lunch with my girlfriend. I was enchanted by the purple fabric and secretly pleased the top showcased what little chesticles I have. I was feeling pretty good about myself.

“Is that a new top?” my girlfriend asked me.

“Yep. Just bought it,” said as I spun around to show her my glory.

“It’s cute. I like the boobs. Well done.” This from a lady who sports a nice rack herself.

“Thanks, I’d take a bow, but I’m fairly sure the girls will pop out.”

We laughed and moved on to other topics. After lunch I headed over to her place where Boo and my kids were working with her husband.

As I screeched to a sudden halt, spraying gravel everywhere pulled into her driveway, I noticed my aunt and uncle were there. I was feeling pretty darn good. Had a nice top on, had a great hair day, and the waitress said I was the coolest mom ever.

It was bound to come to a screeching end sooner or later.

Walking over to greet my family, I noticed I was getting some looks from my aunt and several of the other adults. I felt like a rock star. Oh yea. Me and my fabulous purple top. I’m all that, baby, I thought to myself.

“Honey, you look wonderful!” my aunt said as she bent over to plant a kiss on my cheek.

“Thanks auntie! So do you.” We’re in a club; wonderful-looking members only, please.

Then my uncle wandered by and kissed me and told me I was glowing. I was positively radiant.

“Why, thank you.” See, I’m not vain, I thought to myself. Everyone can see I’m rocking this top.

“So when’s the little one arriving?” my uncle asked.

“Oh, who knows. Could be anytime, could be a year. You never know with these types of situations.”

My uncle looked a little puzzled and wandered away. Ah, he’s getting old, I thought to myself.

My aunt and another lady I’m only vaguely familiar with are standing beside me and suddenly my aunt reaches out and strokes my tummy.

What the fuck???

“You always look so wonderful pregnant, T. It suits you. I’m so happy for you,” my auntie says.

“Um, pardon me auntie?” I’m confused and I could feel my rockstar status slipping away.

“And that top, you’ll be able to wear it for months while you grow. Gorgeous.”

Holy SHIT.

They think I’m pregnant!! “I hate to break it to you ladies, but I’m not pregnant. Just ate one cookie too many for lunch, is all.”

All three of us stood staring at the ground awkwardly, not knowing what to say. Then my aunt pipes up, “Oh, I thought for sure with the size of your boobs and all…”

“It’s called getting fat.”

“Oh. We’re just used to seeing you a little flatter that is. But don’t worry honey. You look great. You look healthy. And your boobs look..”

“Pregnant.”

Wandering off to go and try to flatten my boobs into their once pancake-like glory, I worried that I was now resembling the Invincible Purple Blob, now starring with Pregnant Boobies.

Seeing Boo alone in the corner, away from everyone else, I made a beeline towards him. I must have been radiating something because he immediately looked up and asked, “What’s wrong?”

“Oh, nothing. Just my darling husband sent me off into the great unknown looking like I’m about to birth a three headed calf while my chest could apparently provide enough nourishment for Angelina and Brad’s growing tribe.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” He looked hot, tired and confused. “I like the girls.” Said as he tried to dip a finger in the cleavage.

Smacking it away, I hissed, “They ALL think I’m pregnant!!!”

“Oh. That’s pretty shitty.” He’s back to trying to cop a feel.

“It’s all your fault!!!”

That stopped him cold. “How do you figure that?”

I mustered all the indignity I could and whispered loudly, “I ASKED you if this top made me look fat!”

Dumbass.

“Well it doesn’t. But in my defense, you never asked if it made you look pregnant.” The facker was grinning and back to trying to stick his finger between my boobs. “You gotta learn to ask the right questions, darlin.”

Lesson learned. And I’m burning that top.