I knew I was taking my life in my hands when I did it. My husband and I went to a Duke Spirit concert - British rock-slash-punk with a lead singer attempting to channel Grace Slick. Open-air, God-awful sound quality and standing room only on the floor with a balcony up above. Too short to see anything, even when I climbed up on the edge of a planter, I abandoned the main floor and scurried up to the balcony. Lots of tall people up there, too, but they were all lined up single file along the edge. So I sat down. On the floor. Of a concert. And peered between their legs to the stage below.

I knew I was taking a number of risks. I could get stepped on. I could get beer dumped on my head. And let's not forget my face is now at butt-level, which just opens up a whole new spectrum of unpleasant possibilities. But damn it, I could see, even if I was taking a face full of secondhand pot smoke from down below. (Which isn't that bad in the grand scheme of things. I'll take it over cigarette smoke any day of the week.) What I didn't foresee was the pregnant lady.

I would have moved. I swear it. But it all happened too fast. No warning. Shock and awe. A woman seven, eight months pregnant stepped over my head to get at a railing spot. SHE STEPPED OVER MY HEAD. She was wobbly. She was unstable. She was very, very pregnant and obviously not thinking clearly. There was nothing between the pole vault over my noggin and the sea of humanity and concrete a story below but one piece of glass lining the edge of the balcony. I'm sure it was very strong glass, but she was top heavy and had momentum. This was not the time for a quality control test.

I ducked. Her husband grabbed her. He pointed me out, cowering on the tile, as though I could be missed scrunched up like a rolly-polly bug. "Protect the soft underbelly! Protect the soft underbelly!"

Yeah, I stood up after that.