“Congratulations, when are you due?”

Pregnancy holds a special place in the culture: There are few other circumstances in which someone could glance at a stranger’s body, make assumptions and feel entitled to touch her or offer unsolicited advice.

Even, in my case, when a woman is not actually pregnant.

This happened to me recently while riding a bus in the Bronx. I was standing up on the BX12, holding on to a pole and texting a friend. A white middle-aged man wearing pleated khakis and a blue oxford-cloth shirt sitting nearby turned to me and said loudly, “Please, ma’am, take my seat.”

I shook my head, indicating that I was getting off soon.

He persisted: “Please, ma’am, you really shouldn’t be standing up. Every bump this bus goes over can jostle and hurt your unborn baby.”

I was not, nor have I ever been, pregnant. I was just a well-fed woman in her 30s on her evening commute wearing an empire-waist dress. (Admittedly, that particular style of dress, which cascades down from the fitted bust and helps to disguise protruding stomachs, is a favorite of maternity clothing designers. But that is beside the point.)