Sock bun in the oven.

I’ve known a lot of pregnant people. And while I’ve always understood why it might make them uncomfortable when perfect strangers start fondling their bellies in the grocery store or something, I have never understood what the problem was when I, little old me, a dear friend and faithful companion, wanted to rub the baby. Or talk to it, super close up. Or bite it a little. Through their stomach. Okay, it sounds weird when I’m saying it out loud like that, but I assure you, in the moment – totally normal. To me.

Now I get it.

I was at a baby shower Sunday for one of the world’s most adorable pregnant people ever. Like a party trick, it seemed that most of her other guests were also incredibly, impossibly pregnant. Like going-on-13-months kind of pregnant. And I kept my hands (and mouth) to myself. I’m respectable. Respectful.

Let me just say this: it was not reciprocated.

Those women were manhandling me. Four, five of them at once. I walked out of there looking like I’d been on a three-day bender, I was so disheveled.

I had a sock bun on my head and you would have thought I was growing a kid from my scalp. Granted, it was adorable. It was soft and squishy and just the right amount of messy but still sweet and charming. And they could not keep their hands off of it. Just walking right up and touching it, like just because it sticks out it’s available for all to grope. I’m telling you, it was pretty close to violating.

People, hear me now: just because a woman has a sock bun does not give you license to poke at her, run your hands over her, get all up in her head to figure out how exactly it works and because you just can’t believe – can’t believe! – there aren’t any bobby pins in there.

I should be allowed to wear my sock bun proudly, without “asking for it.” Just keep that in mind, please, people, especially pregnant people who should really know better.