Heading back from a friend's house this evening (one am), the thought occured to me how wonderful it would be to be a man.
Sometimes I get thoughts in my head and I like to turn them over and inspect them and poke at them at a safe distance with bamboo sticks and, if they don't explode, I'll sometimes touch them with my finger if they don't appear to be too gooey or sticky. This sort of inspection is what makes walking one of my favorite pastimes. Something about walking allows my brain to relax and focus lots of useless energy on even more useless topics. I find it calming.
I was deeply contemplating tonight's topic - why I would like to be a man (that is to say, how much I would enjoy being able to walk home at one am in the middle of the city without a drop of fear or hesitation) when a young man tried to interrupt my thoughts.
"Mademoiselle, madamoiselle...hi, can I walk with you?"
Damn it. No. And I told him so. I was doing important thinking. And I didn't appreciate being distracted. He was kind enough to leave me to my ponderings.
But then I had to switch sides of the street because a young group of 18-year-old-ish boys was gathered waiting for the night buses. Any group of young boys gathered in any location is an undesirable thing to encounter when you are a lone female, but such an encounter is even worse for a dripping wet slightly chesty one.
I switched sides at a safe distance so as to make my decision to walk on the opposite sidewalk somewhat normal. Scanning the upcoming sidewalk, I noticed two dark figures coming my way. I decided to wait it out. When they got within site enough so I could make out some body shape, I was relieved to realize they were a couple. Phew. I wouldn't have to switch sides. Again.
But wait, yes I would. Behind them was yet another raucous group of teenage boys, obviously drunk. These are the worst kind. They were carrying crepes : a surefire sign of heavy drinking on a Monday evening. Although I would have probably been capable of outwitting them or of just brushing off their comments, I decided avoidance would be the best strategy.
Switching sides, I stumbled right into two teenage boys asking me for a cigarette. I don't smoke, and I told them so. "But can't you stay and smoke with us anyway?" I really just don't have the time, boys. It's going on two now and it's raining. What the hell are you doing on a street corner?
After an hour of strategically planning my walk so as to be in maximum lighting with the most amount of pedestrians at all times while dodging shady characters (as well as what were probably perfectly kind and friendly testosterone types), I came to my street corner, full of brillant lights and plenty of late-night customers.
(It's always a relief to come up to my baby-sized street that sticks out awkwardly off a large neon-lit plaza. My walks home are fairly safe, moderatly well-lit, and generally pleasant. But sometimes, like this evening, people act strange, the air feels a bit peculiar, and I second-guess my decision to save those extra ten euros by not taking a cab. But I almost always opt for walking: more excercise, less money - even if it can be a bit stressful at times.)
As I walked up to the last half block to my building, it dawned on me that amidst my video-game-like street warrior walk home trying to avoid harassment and unwanted catcalls, propositions, and commentaries, I had totally forgotten what I had been so excited to have been thinking about when I had set out walking.
Oh right. How nice it would be to be a man. Walking home must be so pleasant. All that time to think to yourself. It must be just like walking in the daytime, only calmer and less crowded. How lovely.
What's the best catcall you've ever gotten? Among my top ten: "Where yo' maaaan at?" (Hadn't realized one was required, how gauche of me!) "How can I get a hot babe like you in a car like mine?" (With lines just like that one, hotstuff) and "Just come and have a beer with me and I'll convince you to go home with me!" (Only if that didn't creep me out first... oh, too bad!)
I don't think men realize how irritating this is for most women--they think we should just "get over it" or it's a compliment. How nice it must be to be able to walk a block to the drugstore and not have anyone turn to stare at you or make comments under their breath! Instead of growing to accept this, as I get older I get more and more annoyed.
Kari - Unfortunatly, the men around here are not very creative. They always seem to say the same things.
But I did appreciate it once when walking down the streets in San Francisco and some man on his front porch saw a friend and I walking down the street and said, "I just love me women with big thighs!"
Touching.
Equally touching was when I first started working at a restaurant, and the cook saw me as I was handing in my application and asked, "How are you?"
"I'm fine," I replied in a timid little voice.
"I can see that," he answered.
Actually, that was just really funny. And he and I got to be good friends, even though he literally was a crackhead. But still, his initial comment was far better than calling out the beauty of fat thighs.