Low Points

So today I was walking down the street and I passed a huddle of construction workers on their lunch break. Not one of them made a sound. No whistles. No mamacitas. Now I understand that perhaps I should be relieved at this brief respite from harassment, but all I can do is stare in the mirror and ask "why?" Was not my neckline sufficiently plunging? My jeans suggestively snug? And if the men willing to stare as I walk past can't muster the enthusiasm to compliment, who can I turn to? (My boyfriend doesn't count...he has to flatter me...I make him.)

So apparently, at some point in my development as a strong, self-respecting woman, I tripped and became a person who was not only fine with occasional objectification, but delighted in it.

I'm reminded of a special incident not too long ago, when I encountered a rather down-on-his luck fellow. As I passed him by, he said, "Can I just ask you one question?" Believing I could grant him this wish in lieu of spare change, I said yes, and he continued, "Where'd you get all that?" An imprecise question unless you know me, in which case you'd understand that "that" referred to my rather round derriere. (I think he was pointing too...always a useful communication device.) I mumbled "I'm not sure" and kept walking.

The saddest part of this little story is that I walked around with my chin a bit higher that day. A homeless man had complimented my butt and that made me feel good. No...no...actually, he had just inquired about my butt, and that made me feel good.

So for all those construction workers out there reading this blog (there must be a dozen of you or so), I'd really appreciate a few "pretty girl"s next time. I don't think it's asking too much. Or a few clucks of the tongue, if you're tired. It would mean so much to me and my ravenous ego.