Eating vicariously for two

It's already been established that every woman I know on this planet is pregnant with their subsequent baby. As a result, something strange and mysterious is happening to my waistline.

I'll readily admit that one of my favorite parts of being pregnant and the subsequent nursing-fest that ensued for nearly 22 months was all the food. The glorious food. The pastries and cakes and cookies and ice cream and cheese galore and heaping-helpings of everything--including seconds.

So now I'm surrounded by MILFy-esque women who are chowing down. They are looking gorgeous in their early- and mid-maternity beauty and they are feasting in the spirit of motherhood. They are feasting because their bodies demand it. They are feasting because if they don't, they'll be puking instead. And it's just not fair. So I've been indulging, just a little here and there.

I had given up desserts of all kind not that long ago for wardrobe-related reasons. But now that everyone is feasting, my will power has been ditched along with the spermicide in all of my girlfriends' bedside tables. It's as if my body is gearing up for a pregnancy that does not exist...unless my stomach knows something that the rest of my body doesn't know about.

In the meantime, I'm thoroughly enjoying the culinary delights that go hand in hand with pregnancy--without the pregnancy, without the morning sickness, and without the exhaustion.

But if I keep going at this rate, my skin will be glowing from all the fatty foods, my closet will be overtaken with my pregnancy gear, and my belly will be bulging--not with baby--but with good old-fashioned motherly flab.