Holla

Back in my hometown, walking down the street often made me feel like Homecoming Queen. Rarely a jaunt to the bagel cafe or the record shop went by that some stranger didn’t catcall at me. I know, I know. Women’s lib. Feminism. Women aren’t objects. I believe all that, now. But truth is, at 15 and 16, it was flattering to realize that my body wasn’t a repulsive freak of nature and was indeed, potentially, desirable. As my confidence grew, interestingly, the hooting and hollering diminished. In fact, I haven’t been catcalled in a loooooooong time.

Until this weekend.

At about ten am on Saturday morning, I was walking home from the pool. My hair was stringy from the chlorine, and the bridge of my nose and eyesockets were impressed with goggle indentations. I most definitely an eau de YMCA pool. And as I crossed the street, a car drove by and a man hollered, “Give me some of that, baby!” Before I even registered what was happening, the car was gone and I found myself on the sidewalk thinking about how interesting it was.

I immediately pulled out my phone for a photo, as I was afraid maybe I was somehow showing skin or there was a misplaced hole in my pants.

Nope. Just raccoon eyes and Batman, as expected. Apparently, this is the look that drives guys wild.

Anyone else ever been hollered at unexpectedly? Or done some hollering! (I have definitely done that, like when at a small venue music show, I yelled “I love the way you blow that horn!” to a trumpet player.) Actually, has anyone gotten a date this way? I sure haven’t, yet…

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