Late last week, my friend Greg called with an odd request.

I’ve known Greg since college. A would-be Sebastian Junger, he writes for men’s magazines. Our once dead friendship had been resuscitated by a series of unplanned meetings during the day, when both of us were working from home or, more accurately, from various coffee shops in the neighborhood.

“I need to ask you a huge favor,” he said. I could tell from the street noise in the background that he was calling from his cell.

“Okay …” I said, faintly intrigued.

“It’s for an article I’m doing,” he said

“Okay …” I repeated.

“Will you be my wingman?”

“Your wingman?” I said. “You want me go out to bars with you and help you approach, then procure, the phone numbers of dateable women?”

“Basically,” he said. “And preferably sometime this week.”

“You do realize I’m very visibly pregnant,” I said. It had been a while since he’d seen me.

“I know,” he said. “That’s kind of the point, and there’s no smoking in bars anymore.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “Are you saying you’re writing an article using different kinds of wingmen?”

“Basically,” he said, faintly grumbling. I was enjoying this actually. Normally, Greg is a real snob. Apparently, the piece was for one of the lad mags. “It’s totally stupid, I know, but it pays so well I couldn’t refuse it.”

“Hm,” I said, thinking of lots of sell-out comments I could make but deciding against goading him any further. “Okay,” I said. “My belly and I will be your wingmen.”

Once we’d determined to do it that Thursday, Greg suggested a downtown Manhattan bar. “Can’t we just do it somewhere in Brooklyn?” I said, noting that, in my gestating state, I tended to start fading or, as I liked to put it, “turning into a pumpkin” by 9.

“You don’t need a wingman to approach women in Brooklyn,” he told me. And so, Manhattan it was. On the appointed night, I entered the bar, a somewhat fashionable place with a vaguely mod decor, to find a crowd of well-groomed professionals. When was the last time I’d been in a bar like this – a year, two years, a couple of lifetimes? In part because of the evening’s mission, I scrutinized the women, all of whom seemed to be wearing designer jeans and heels and have metallic-colored handbags and professional-caliber blow outs. Four out of five were sipping colored drinks in martini glasses. “Sex and the City” may have ended, but Manhattan’s single females had apparently not received the memo.

Greg had yet to arrive, so I made my way to an empty table. In keeping will the decor, it was round and white and had two vaguely space-age stools. I tried to lift myself up onto one as gracefully as possible, then, realizing that in my current state, grace was not a real possibility, settled for a more unglamorous hoisting. Between my ungainly moves and my belly, I’d attracted some interested glances, making me think that, despite the smoking ban, there still weren’t many preggos at happy hour.

“Sorry I’m late,” Greg said when he got there. I told him not to worry, and to forgive me for not getting up. After a brief kiss on the cheek, he asked what kind of drink I wanted. Fighting the urge to order a cranberry juice in a martini glass just to see more shocked expressions, I asked for a ginger ale. “Okay,” he said. “And while I’m getting it, you scout the room for suitable targets.”

“Will do,” I said, realizing only then that this wingman job would probably require repeated trips up and down off this barstool.

“Okay,” I told Greg when he returned. “I’ve found a few prospects.” Placing a bracing hand on the table, I readied myself for liftoff.

“Whoa,” he said. “You don’t have to be so mercenary. We can actually do a bit of catching up first and enjoy each other’s company.”

“Oh, great, then,” I said, knowing my need to get down off the chair would be nagging in the back of my mind for the duration of this catch-up conversation.

He told me a bit about some other pieces he was working on – “real ones,” he assured me, “that require actual journalism” – and asked if the baby was kicking. “Not so much as just moving around,” I said, assuring him that if the baby should do so here in the bar, I’d let him put his hand on my belly to feel it. Greg then said something seemingly innocuous that I knew really wasn’t. “How’s Maya?” he asked me.

Greg and Maya had always traveled in similar circles but, since she thought he was stuck up and he thought she was flaky, they’d never really been friends. Greg’s discovery months ago that Maya was dating a 22-year-old youngster whose sole ambition was to become a him-wife had done little to advance the cause. Still, given the evening’s mission, Greg was hardly one to judge – not that that would make him any less judgmental.

“Maya’s fine,” I said, sipping my ginger ale.

“She still seeing that guy?” His tone bore shades of mockery.

“Not really,” I said. I knew it was weak, but it was an honest answer. Greg nodded as if about to say something, but then, perhaps thinking of the pot calling the kettle blackness of our purpose at the bar, seemed to think better of it.

Soon enough, it was time to work. We decided a trio of cute girls sitting at the edge of the bar in front of us would be my first targets. “All right,” I said, lifting myself up off the barstool and down to the floor with what I hoped was limited elephant-likeness. “I’m off to find you women.”

Halfway toward the appointed gaggle, I felt the baby squirm, perhaps from my barstool exertion. “It’s moving,” I said, turning around to face Greg with a hand on my belly. “Come quick and you can feel it.”

Greg hopped off his chair, placed his hand on my middle, then smiled and said, “Wow, that’s amazing.”

Soon enough, Greg went back to the table, and I approached the bar near the trio to “order a drink.” I scanned my brain for an opening line with which to approach them, but as soon as I reached the bar, I discovered it wasn’t necessary.

“Your husband is so sweet,” one of the women, a redhead, said to me.

“Oh, that’s not my husband,” I said, realizing the belly was the best wingman of all. “He’s just a friend.”