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Forget about Obama’s reelection bid or even Ben & Jerry’s controversial new SNL-inspired flavor: The hottest story making the news circuit is actually a burning question of far greater global interest and significance: Is Jennifer Aniston pregnant or isn’t she?
Rumors have been flying recently (well, actually since 2000, but you know what we mean) that the former Mrs. Pitt is indeed carrying the love-child of boyfriend Justin Theroux. There have been teeny, tiny bump spottings, stories of Justin-and-Jen doing doctor’s appointments together, and of course the “blind gossip” post on Gawker alluding to a certain definitively-pregnant-celebrity-someone that pretty much sums up Jen to a (maternity) tee.
I normally don’t envy or pity the celestial crowd; I sort of figure they knew what they were getting into when they decided to follow the blinding star of fame. But as a woman of a certain age (that’s code for over-forty), I have to say I feel for poor, single Jen. She’s made it clear that she very much wants a baby, and sources have reported Jen at various times being eager to get knocked up by ex-hubby Brad Pitt, rocker John Mayer, bad boy Gerard Butler, even her Break Up co-star Vince Vaughn (even though we mostly got the feeling she was never that into him). She can’t even wear a billowy top or take a night off from boozing it up or suffer a touch of PMS bloat without a billion gossip mags announcing her impending motherhood.
Here’s a thought: Why don’t we all stop speculating and let the woman gestate in peace? If and when there’s a fetus in her impossibly taut over-forty belly, I’m sure she’ll be delighted to let us know.