This is for the three separate guys who asked me—in the span of less than an hour—if I was pregnant. It was, admittedly, my bloated time of the month. And yeah, my gym membership is more like a donation since all I get out of it is guilt. But really, it’s an iron-clad rule: don’t ask a woman that question. Ever. I don’t care if her stomach looks like an overinflated beach ball, her ankles look like tree trunks and she’s got amniotic fluid running down her leg. Just keep your damn mouth shut. OK?