By Lexi MooreAs my pregnant belly has really started to extend beyond the normal confines of a waistline, I have noticed that I have unofficially been welcomed into a new club. It’s one I didn’t even know existed.This club doesn’t have annual fees, meetings or even a name, but it is easy to tell when you are a member.I have been suspicious about a possible membership for sometime now, but it was solidified during several recent experiences.Club membership depends on one thing and one thing alone: being pregnant. Social class, appearance or education have no bearing on getting into the club. Simply going about your daily life with a larger-than-normal-looking basketball in your belly gives you the right to participate in the rituals and conversations of members.It seems everywhere I go, members approach me to talk the membership talk. They want to know when the baby is due, what the gender is, where I shop, how I am feeling, am I hating all the heat, are my feet swollen, am I taking vitamins, who is my doctor and on and on and on.I don’t mind interacting with strangers. There are times when I even enjoy a random chat while in line at the store, but this new club is starting to wear me out. Some of the questions, which I was kind enough not to include in the above list, haven’t even been asked by my doctor. In fact, I probably won’t even discuss them with him if he did ask.In addition to questions, my new club friends seem to think I might be interested in their stories. They offer tales of childbirth, none of which make for good conversation while ordering food at a fast food counter.I have several reference books offering advice for this life-changing event, but none of them include strategies for how to politely exit uncomfortable conversations with women I do not know.Last weekend at my 10-year high school reunion (a horrifying experience in and of itself), a woman I hadn’t seen in 11 years asked to feel my belly. I obliged, expecting the usual tap or quick rub. After all, I get about three of those a day. But this woman all but molested my unborn child. She was telling me where a foot was, how the head was turned and so on.I stood there, trying not to look annoyed, but honestly, I was. My little unborn baby has been camping inside my midsection for over six months, so I am pretty aware by this point where the feet are at any given time. Especially since they are often jabbing me in my ribs or bouncing on my bladder.I guess the three children she has given birth to give her a high status within the club and permission to make all us first timers feel weird.Just this past weekend I had my biggest taste of how large this club has become. I ventured to Denver to watch a rock-and-roll show at the Red Rock Amphitheater in Golden, Colo. The theater holds thousands of people, many of whom are members of the club.As one of a handful of pregnant ladies in attendance, I got plenty of attention from the crowd and I received a big perk for being a new member.As I approached a rather long line in the ladies’ bathroom, heads began to turn. At first I thought they were all going to lecture me on the dangers of being out on the side of a mountain while seven months pregnant in near 100-degree heat at a rock show. But I was wrong. As club members they recognized how I might really need to use a bathroom, so they quickly let me move to the front of the line.Throughout the show I happily answered the questions, was given plenty of room to dance by those around (apparently people do not want to crowd a big bouncing belly) and received a heaping helping of respect from members of the club. After all, it was very hot, I was on the side of a mountain, the music was loud, my back did feel a bit like it might break into three separate pieces, and yet I had a giant smile on my face and was having the time of my life.Story ideas or comments can be e-mailed to Lexi Moore at lexim@star-herald.com or called in at 962-3561.