I Enjoy Being A Girl?

"You're offensive and that just won't fly. She doesn't want a jerk or a jock; wooing her will take a sensitive guy." -- The 114th Varsity Show

Bitchy Bluestocking, the Catcall Queen of Greenpoint, recently wrote an excellent blog entry about her strange ability to attract the hoots, hollers, and neanderthal grunts of the men of New York City. Thus, I dedicate this post to her.

Before I describe my day, I'll preface it with a disclaimer. Yes, I enjoy receiving compliments from friends and more-than-friends -- who doesn't? I like feeling beautiful, I like knowing that someone I care about finds me attractive. However, I have no tolerance for men who see a single woman on the street and feel the need to draw attention to it. That guy in a van, those construction workers, and the dude on the corner don't know anything about me and aren't making any effort to learn, so they have no right to judge me in a way that crosses any boundaries.

There was a chill in the air when I woke this morning, so I paired my black pencil skirt and sage v-necked sweater with my favorite pair of knee-high, pointy-toed boots. I had completely forgotten that creepy men have the ability to sense a woman in boots half a mile away; a random stranger wished my breasts a slimy hello after my first three blocks. I turned up the volume on my iPod and continued my powerwalk, but I couldn't help but remember BB's blog entry. Inspired by her take-no-prisoners approach to catcallers, I vowed to make a stand if it happened again.

For the rest of my commute, the only seductive voice that reached my eardrums belonged to Eric Clapton. I got to work, navigated morning clinic without incident, then took a coffee break. I walked to Second Avenue alongside a middle-aged woman and a small child, then the three of us waited for the light to change.

The light turned yellow and a truck accelerated to whiz through it, but the driver still managed to leer and aim a long whistle in my direction. I gave him the finger, and damn it felt good.

"That's vulgar!" said the woman next to me, shielding the eyes of her child with her hand.
"And what he did to me wasn't vulgar?!"
"You shouldn't have risen to the occasion."

I looked away, casting a quick glance at my waistband to make sure the name on my ID badge and number on my pager were turned away from the woman's eyes. I then fumed about the incident all day. Why shouldn't I be allowed to look good for work? Why don't real, honest-to-god gentlemen exist anymore? And how the heck did I turn into the bad guy by refusing to be disrespected?

Four hours later, I started my evening commute prepared for battle, wearing my fiercest look and working my most imposing powerwalk. Then, about a block from clinic, I almost collided with a man in a suit, who apologized for getting in my way and wished me a good evening. I was so surprised that I returned the sentiment. Ten minutes later, another fellow held the doors of the W train as I rushed down the escalator towards it. I guess I'll save losing all faith in humanity for another day.