I’m a lowly intern at my summer job. I squint at Excel spreadsheets three days a week and my eyeballs are permanently branded; I have dreams about resizing text cells. I’m also the youngest person in the office and I never know where to park my car. The parking lot is especially small and cars often block other cars in. I’ve had to move my car at least six times this summer (which I’m generally okay with doing), but one time was different.
The office sees a lot of large, 16-wheelers carrying shipments of products into the warehouse, so I wasn't surprised one morning when a man who works in the warehouse told me that I had to move my car to make room for a new delivery. I immediately obliged and walked outside to the parking lot.
Once outside, I glanced to my right and saw a man, around 40-years-old, leaning against the brick wall of the warehouse. He reclined with one of his legs propped up behind him. It’s the cliché image of a teenage male heartthrob protagonist in a Lifetime movie waiting at a girl’s locker.
He looked at me then spoke at me – harshly.
“Why’d you park your car there?”
“I didn’t realize it would be an issue. I’ll move it now.”
“If you park there again, I’ll kick your butt.”
“Uh, okay.”
Then, there was a pause.
“Looking very sexy,” he throws in, after I’ve already started walking away.
I am taken aback. This older man, whom I don’t know, scolded me for my poor choice in parking, then he promptly told me that I was “looking very sexy.” Suddenly, a million thoughts and responses race through my mind. I should ask him how he would react if a stranger told his daughter or his mother or his sister that she was “looking very sexy.” I should tell him that I’m 19-years-old and I’m not a sex object for him to comment on and admire. I should scream at him. I should hit him with my car once I move it to a better spot. I don’t do any of these, though.
I responded with a measly, “Mhm.”
He replied, “Mmmmmmhhhhm.”
I went back inside and returned to my desk.
I'm still shaken up. I tell myself that I would feel fine if he only told me to move my car. I would have felt fine if he only catcalled at me. It’s hard for me to grasp the concept that someone – some man – feels so entitled to say whatever he pleases that it’s acceptable for him to treat me like garbage verbally and then immediately objectify me.
I don’t know what to do, so I sit at my desk and cry silently to myself.
I wasn’t dressed inappropriately at work, I think. I was wearing a totally normal outfit – a black t-shirt and floral shorts. I realize that it shouldn’t matter what I’m wearing. He shouldn’t comment on my physique at all.
I finally get home and my mom thinks I’m acting strangely. She feels that I’m upset with her, but I’m not. I break down to her about how this five-second interaction ruined my entire day. She comforts me and I feel better but I’m still not completely over it.
Some people think that women should “be thankful” for compliments on the street from random strangers. This is something I will never understand. Now, I am hesitant to wear tighter shirts to work. I slouch when I walk. I’m even sometimes uncomfortable wearing my dangly earrings to work because I fear that I’ll receive unwarranted comments, and I love my dangly earrings. I just hope the day when I can wear what I please without receiving any extra, unwanted attention comes soon. After all, slouching is bad for my posture.
