No. You can't touch my belly.

Being a grown-up also means you have to be patient. I am not a patient person, not at all. Not ever, not in the slightest. I'm getting better, but truth be told, I am generally intolerant of people, I think most people are idiots, and at any given point in time (thanks to the magic of hormones), I hate 95% of the people I encounter during the day.

I'm especially intolerant to being touched. Coming from a non-touchy-feely family, I am not a big hugger. I don't like touching people. I'm weird about strangers touching me, or even friends and family if the physical contact is not initiated from my end first. So you can imagine how my patience and my neuroses take a double-hit with strangers that feel that because I'm pregnant, I must obviously have no problem whatsoever with them touching my belly.

I don't mind Andy touching it. I don't mind family or even friends, or most of my coworkers. It's taken me nearly six long months to finally come to terms with my knockedupitude, and now that I'm embracing it, I'm proud to share it with the world. But this doesn't make me any less pissed or weirded out when strangers, complete and total strangers in completely ambiguous, generic public places, feel the need to rub my belly.

If you are not pregnant and don't know anyone that is pregnant, and somehow just stumbled across this blog, if there is ANYTHING you take away from my documentation of pregnancy, know this. NEVER question what a pregnant woman wants to eat, and NEVER, EVER, EVER touch her belly. It's like approaching a sketchy-looking man walking with a rabid-looking pitbull. You ASK before you touch. Otherwise, I really can't promise I won't bite you, claw your eyes out, or verbally insult your mother.

Old ladies are the worst. You can't get mad, but at the same time, I think they do it because they're old and think they can. Like driving 10 mph on the Interstate, urinating on themselves in public, or never, ever tipping when they eat out (not that I'm bitter... oh no). I have lost count of the number of old ladies that come up and touch my stomach when I'm somewhere like Wal-Mart and then want to strike up an hour-long discussion of how I'm too skinny to be 23 weeks along. Look, lady, I just want to take my keylime pie and brownie mix (which I assure you will never see the oven, just a bowl and a spatula) and make my way over to Krispy Kreme and gorge. I don't want to talk to you. You want to talk to or about something rotund and equally disinterested in you, I recommend going over to produce and talking to a melon. You will never know the difference, I promise.

I've had a couple creepy guys come up to me too, and I think they are almost WORSE than old ladies. Apparently because I'm knocked up, it can be assumed that my "creepy guy radar" is no longer functioning. You're wrong. Don't talk to me. Don't touch me. Yes, I am pregnant, Captain Observant. No, you can't rub coacoa butter on it. There are plenty of websites out there for sickies like you, just let me look for frames and matting here in peace.

Maybe I'm callous and rude. Maybe I should embrace the beauty of my glowing pregnancy and let the world in on my joy. Or maybe I should just walk around with a gigantic neon sign above my head warning people not to touch the prego.

But... considering my varying hormone levels... I wouldn't necessarily mind the occasional physical assault on one of those weirdos, either. I actually might welcome that.