Probably *his* wedding ring is buried deep in an edema crease, too. And our ankles look startlingly similar, with sock lines more or less permanently embedded in our puffy legs. And that multi-creased midline silhouette featuring the many-rolls effect.... The bra strap, the underwear line, the pants waistband... tourniquets, each and every one. Oh yes, the Michelin Man and I could talk long and hard about circulatory impairment issues, I'm sure. I am convinced we are both so pale because blood flow past such obstacles is really purely theoretical.

Where we differ is that his rolls are caused by steel-belt-radial technology, and mine are caused by cheap elastic. As I stubbornly refuse to roll my (never svelte but still expanding) self into maternity clothes, I find that more and more, common elastic appears to be Satan's plaything. I am reasonably sure that, by the end of this month, I will be able to scientifically report on the stress endurance limits of most brands of commercial clothing.

I've also become a rubber band connoisseur. I now grocery shop for items not based on the nutritional value, but on what kind of rubber band holds the package shut. Because thick rubber bands on my jeans fly are the only thing keeping a tenuous separation between my gut and the world at large. I've started to use two rubber bands as a safety backup: one as a primary, one as a spare, because God help us if one lets loose. Someone's losing an eye.

Those of you who like to overpack for vacation know the situation: there simply *must* be a way to get two more outfits into the suitcase. You're jamming it in with your feet, you're breaking a sweat, you're calling on gods you don't mention in any other context. Japanese origami experts are watching you with wonder as you fold and refold, roll and re-roll, until the suitcase's stitching can actually be *heard* and you're reinforcing with duct tape. This is me and my jeans in the morning. It's an entire T'ai Chi workout as I manipulate my abdomen into strange and exotic new shapes, determined that I can get...just...one...more...day....outofthesedamnjeans...

(Speaking of steel-belted radials, I think perhaps we should start treading our tires with Levis. I mean, whoever developed this fabric was a master of physics. What I'm asking it to do here on a daily basis boggles the mind. Surely science has much to learn from the humble 501s....)

Mind you, today, as I am trying to totally convince my clients I am not pregnant, I did the extra backflip and headstand to actually *button the button*, forgoing the customary rubber band. Yes, I hear your gasp of astonishment! But it may yet prove to be a hasty and rash decision. My eyes are bulging more from their sockets than usual. I can feel my pulse in my ears. Even now I am harboring unsavory mental images of that riveted little button letting go with an anguished, tinny cry of defeat. Assuming it's not a deadly projectile at that point and we all survive unpunctured, there is the impending gruesome spectacle of my pregnant gut exploding out of my jeans with all the grisly force of an airbag deployment.

If your ears pop for no discernible reason today, it will be that the explosion of my Levis will have caused the environmental equivalent of an airplane cabin de-pressurization. A mask will drop from your overhead compartment; oxygen will be flowing to the mask even if the bag does not inflate. Fasten it securely over your own head before assisting the person next to you.