Lookin’ Good, Baby: Why I Don’t Mind the Catcall+comment
I believe in equality between the sexes. If a man and a woman have the same job with the same seniority and responsibilities, they should take home the same pay. Ladies, if your guy picked up the tab on the first date, there’s no reason why you can’t lay down your plastic for the second. And if my man took out the trash last week, then by all means tonight it’s my turn. I call this reason; others, feminism. Tomato, tomahto. But since we’re about to hop on board the women’s lib train, let’s take it to the next stop. Hands down, I would rather be applauded for my brains than my boobs. As some say, smart over sexy. Yet I don’t see the distinction. Smart is sexy. Looks fade, but – knock on wood – my mind will still be serving me well even when I’m a denture-chompin’, Depends-wearin’, blue-haired and totally rockin’ geriatric goddess.
So yeah… I guess you can call me a feminist. I’m also human. I falter at times. The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak. My Achilles heel? I don’t consider the occasional objectification an all-together bad thing. I don’t mean a Playboy centerfold kind of
objectification. Just a little appreciation for my maintenance habits if you will.
Though to be clear, I do not encourage men behaving badly. I’m generally not a fan of unsolicited hoots and hollers and am astounded that some men think honking their horns, making obscene gestures or yelling some misogynistic BS might actually garner a positive outcome… until they do.
So the other day I was in the middle of my jog. Typically it’s a highlight of my day; however, this outing seemed a bit more cumbersome than usual. Perhaps I didn’t drink enough water beforehand. Or maybe the unusually high temps were sapping my energy reserves… Whatever the case, I fought through the weariness and continued to trudge along in my relatively quiet neighborhood. That’s when I heard those magic words: “Lookin’ good!” Whoosh! A punk-ish twenty-something zipped past me on his bike. He turned around and smiled: “Nice ass!” As ashamed as I am to admit it, I smiled back. Not only did I smile, I might have giggled a little. Why? Because it made me feel good, dammit. I was tired. I didn’t feel like running. And the fact that this guy showed his – ahem – appreciation for my assets fell on some very grateful ears. Besides, who doesn’t like a compliment?
I’m not saying that I want to be harassed day in and day out, and I certainly don’t want to regress back to a time when women could hope for nothing more than a wedding band and babies. I, for one, plan to hammer away at that glass ceiling until it’s completely shattered. I will happily pay when it’s my turn to get dinner. And regardless of a fresh manicure, I will never whine when the trash needs to go out. Because maybe, just maybe, some nice young man will notice me on my way to the dumpster and yell, “So fine, baby doll!” A girl can hope, can’t she?