Get ready for some massive generalizations, and I’m really fucking angry right now too, so this will not be pleasant for some of you. But, then, I also feel like the people who read my blog – women and men – get it, so I’m not that worried about it.
I am so angry right now that I am shaking and on the verge of tears.
And I’m horribly uncomfortable.
Over the last several weeks, I have no idea why, but more men have been commenting on me and my appearance (and if a single one of you says, “Oh, it’s because you’re hot,” I swear I will find you and hit you. Hard). I don’t enjoy having my appearance commented on by strangers and some of the comments have had the exact opposite effect I think some of these men think they should have.
As you know (if you know me), I spend a lot of time at Starbucks working on school-related stuff. I write papers here, I grade papers here, I read here, I meet friends here every now and then and just veg. Because I’m here a lot, I see a lot of other regulars, but I don’t generally interact with most of them. I have no interest in interacting with them for a whole host of reasons.
Anyway, twice in the last two days one of the regulars (who’s old enough to be my father) has told me – in a not very fatherly way – how attractive I am. It doesn’t make me feel attractive. It weirds me out. And how much time has he spent sitting around looking at me?
Today, a man who I have never spoken to; a man I have actively avoided speaking to, not only spoke to me, but he fucking touched me. He fucking rubbed my back. And the guy old enough to be my father? Yeah, he laughed.
What is it with men?
So, I’m sitting here, earphones in, preparing an hour-long presentation for one of my classes and minding my own business, when this guy (who doesn’t appear to be much older than I am) comes in with a couple of his buddies. He walks over to the area I’m in and shakes hands with the other men who are sitting here (who I’ve also actively avoided speaking to) and shakes hands with them.
Then, he puts his hand on my shoulder, runs his hand down my back and says, “Hello, miss.”
I can’t even imagine the look that must have been on my face when I looked up at him.
He started to say, “You know, I’ve been meaning to tell you…you look…oh, you’re busy.” I didn’t say a word, just pointed at my computer and gave him a dirty look. Didn’t say a word. Wanted to fucking scream at him to not ever touch me. Or any woman. Ever.
What the fuck?!
Then, he went and sat across the cafe from me and watched me while he talked to his buddies. Maybe about me, maybe not about me.
When I got up to get a refill on my tea about 15 minutes later, they moved to the chairs behind me, and, now, they’re sitting behind me, looking at me, and I can hear them talking about me.
It’s not just the commenting on my appearance that makes me angry. And this is not an “oh, c’mon, Meizac, just take the compliment” kind of thing. It’s not a compliment to hear the comments in this context.
But he fucking touched me. He fucking ran his hand down my shoulder and back. And I sat here and took it.
I took it.
And I’m still sitting here quietly angry and shaking and on the verge of tears.