Dear everyone at work,
How are you? You seem confused. I know that I used to see you all and greet you every day when I worked in the main lobby, and now you rarely see me. I can't help but notice that when we do have occasion to run into each other, your eyeballs drift to my abdomen. It's not just you - I'm pregnant. Very much so; you can tell by the many, many pounds I have gained that have deposited themselves exclusively on my belly area. I can also tell that you're dying to ask me if I'm pregnant, but you're afraid that maybe I've just become heir to a fortune that's dependent on how well the stock of Ben & Jerry's is performing. It's okay! Go ahead and ask me! If I really dislike you, I'll say no and watch you squirm in horror, but there are very few of you who deserve such torture.
I know that everyone says that you should never ask someone if they're pregnant, and I follow that rule myself. Still, if you're going to be blatantly eyeballing my gut, you might as well ask. If I was just getting fatter, your stares would be just as insulting as you asking outright. If you don't ask, I'm not really going to let you off the hook on my own. When we do run into each other in the break room, I like to keep our interactions confined to the usual: minimal eye contact, perfunctory greeting, maybe on Mondays/Fridays an acknowledgement of the past/upcoming weekend. Ditto elevator. There's nothing worse than starting a conversation only to have the other person get off on the next floor, forcing an awkward and abrupt end, or worse, the open-door linger. Nobody likes an elevator lingerer, and I don't want to be responsible for anyone having to wait an extra 20 seconds to get upstairs.
The only other solution that I have for you is to just carry around cans of cheap beer, and you can offer to chug one with me. Actually, you all should probably start doing that whether or not there are pregnant people you want to ferret out. It'd be great for company morale.