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I had an unpleasant experience recently which brought back memories of years ago when I had poofy blond hair, wore mini skirts, white high heeled boots with fringe, pitch black eye makeup, pale (almost white) lipstick, huge dangly earrings, and fake fur jackets. I was in my twenties and I lived in San Francisco. Along with this stunning fashion statement I possessed a friendly, outgoing, and exuberant personality. I was adorable.
As I went through daily life I spoke to everyone and anyone I encountered. I engaged people in conversation in lines, on the bus, at the sandwich shop, at work, in the elevator, and anywhere else where people congregated. One day an older female coworker asked me to go on a coffee break. I was thrilled because we hadn’t socialized much at work and she was a respected member of our team.
We walked to the corner coffee shop and sat down at a little table and as I prepared to launch into my usual charming self she interrupted with, “I need to warn you about something.”
What? Warn me? Was I about to be fired? Tears welled up and she realized what I must have thought and she immediately patted my hand and said, “Oh, no, no, no. It’s nothing bad. I just need to tell you something.” I waited.
As she proceeded she paused countless times. So many times I couldn’t be sure what it was she was warning me about. I was so horrified that to this day I don't remember the actual conversation but here’s the gist of it: she informed me I was in danger of being attacked by men because of my outrageous personality. I was too friendly. Men were taking it the wrong way at work and were talking. The talk had finally gotten around and she had just learned about it.
I was speechless. I wasn’t some kid off the farm with corn silk stuck in my ears. I had lived in and around urban areas most of my twenty something life and I read newspapers and magazines and books and was wise beyond my years. Sort of.
We discussed my behavior a bit longer and soon we had to return to work. We decided to have lunch the next day to further explore my “problem.” I must admit that the rest of the day was a blur. I could hardly speak to anyone and could not speak at all to any of the men. When I got on the bus to head home that night I stuck my head in a book and never looked up until I got to my stop. I literally ran home (not easy in white high heeled boots with fringe) and locked myself in and cried for several hours.
Prior to the conversation with the older female coworker I thought I had the world by the tail. I was happy. I loved my work. I loved my friends. I loved living in the city. I loved my clothes. I loved my apartment. I loved it all. Learning I was some sort of social predator/pariah was devastating.
I met with the woman for lunch as planned and she defined my “condition” more narrowly. She had determined that though she didn’t believe I was flirting with the men, it is what they believed. She observed that I was friendly to the women and the men in the same way. The men, however, thought I was coming on to them. That wasn’t the term she used back then but that’s essentially what she thought was the problem.
I began to understand what she meant because I had often been the recipient of over-the-top and unwanted attention from some of the men I met but had learned how to deal with them. When I made it clear to the men I wasn’t interested I was sometimes called unflattering names. The word “tease” was used with accompanying descriptive body parts connected to the word “tease” such as p---k tease, c---t tease, etc. Usually, but not always, these nasty encounters were with older men. Much older men. Though the younger men were probably equally as eager to jump me they were not as desperate as the older men. I did not, however, realize my behavior was in any way responsible for these encounters until that fateful coffee break and subsequent lunch.
I told her that I had never flirted with boys or men in my entire life. In fact, I felt deficient in my flirting capabilities. I tried to behave towards the boys and men in my life the way my friends did, batting lashes, coy and cunningly sweet, but I couldn’t pull it off. At some point I decided to not flirt and to just be myself. My own mother told me it was best to be myself when meeting boys and men since I was constantly sobbing to her with my frustration at their lack of interest in me. Apparently, being myself meant I unleashed a monster. I didn’t need to flirt. I was a natural born hooker. At least that’s what the men must have thought.
I liked this woman a lot. She was kind and friendly and I had no reason to believe she was trying to hurt me. Indeed, I thought she was trying to help me. One part of her advice, however, placed a tiny seed of doubt into my poor brain: she addressed my clothing choices as being part of my “problem.”
Women are often warned about clothing. We certainly do see bizarre clothing but women have been stigmatized with troubles that befall them because of their clothing forever. In fact, in some countries women must cover themselves completely to avoid men gazing upon their bodies in more informal attire thereby inciting the men to rape and molest the women. Do we have such a low opinion of men? Granted, some men deserve our scorn but the men in my family and friends circle are not raging rapists. I’ve always hated when women are blamed for being raped because of their clothing. Come on. Women are raped in nursing homes. Were they wearing seductive hospital gowns? No. Rape isn’t about sexual appeal. It’s about brutality and control and insanity. There’s a huge gap between overly aggressive men scoping out a subject for a potential roll in the hay versus a rapist.
In the sixties, there were two distinct dress styles. I wore them both. On the weekends I dressed like a hippy and during the workweek I wore mini skirts, boots, and the aforementioned hair and makeup. Me and thousands of other women office workers in cities throughout the United States. In fact, the world. As I mentioned before, reading newspapers and magazines I saw the very clothing I wore every day. I looked at my older wiser coworker and realized “older” was the key to the little seed of doubt I developed. I was young and cheerful and happy and looked adorable. She was old and glum and serious and did not look adorable. She was probably pushing forty.
Still, I did start looking at the men differently when I talked to them and I’ll be damned--I saw lechery that I hadn’t noticed before. When I started toning down with them they changed toward me. Some changed so much they no longer sought me out. I wasn’t stupid. I knew she was right insofar as my personality disorder. So though I didn’t change my attire, just changing the way I communicated with men made a huge difference. Behavior in life is key to all encounters.
Those years passed, I married, had children, and got divorced. (Not all at once.) When I found myself in the world again after the divorce I was now pushing forty (like my former coworker) with two little kids and thirty pounds of pregnancy fat. The last thing I thought about or cared about was romance. I spent the next years just raising my kids and surviving. It was tremendously rewarding but I did live an inward existence and didn’t date or care to date and my previous youthful exuberance had definitely left the building so I entered a period of just being a normal every day person who preferred to be home rather than anywhere else on the planet. I just worked and raised kids. Period.
Years after that I hit my sixties then retirement. A funny thing happened on my way to retirement and after retirement. I started getting unwelcome advances from men again similar to the attention I got in my twenties. This time, they were much more direct and much more aggressive. I didn’t recognize it at first (it had been a long time) so I was shocked. Once or twice when out with friends they laughed when some guy would make advances towards me, sometimes at a table full of women. I could not believe this was happening—again—in my sixties.
So more recently it happened at a craft fair. A man locked onto me after I asked him a question, a simple question, and I had one hell of a time extracting myself from him. When I finally gave him a firm brush off he made a rude comment and marched off. Then it hit me. I had my exuberance back. I was retired, happy, my kids were grown and educated and doing well, and my happy continence returned and once again men feel it’s an invitation to dalliance. It is not. I just like having fun and being happy and talking to people. Screw ‘em. (Pun intended.)
Most of the men in this category are a lot older than I am. A lot. Just as before. To them I am a younger woman (at 65). Am I their last ditch effort for a romp? Is this where the term “dirty old men” comes from? Do I have just enough age on me for them to think I won’t call the police because they can’t behave this way with a thirty-year-old? Do they think I should be grateful? What is this? I don't care. This time I’m not changing my personality. I am happy and exuberant and friendly. But I’m also not going to put up with some jerk’s desperate attempt to get me by coercion and blaming me for being a tease. Baloney. Bring it on. (I wonder where I put those boots? They also had pointy toes.)
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