Generally, my opinions don’t align very well with the modern feminist agenda. It’s not that I don’t stand for women’s rights; it’s just that sometimes I feel the approach taken is too extreme and, well, you can learn more about that in my earlier article(s). However, there is one particular facet of modern feminism that I think is crucial and that I think needs to be addressed more frequently and with greater fervency. Women should not feel obliged to play along with awkward pick-up lines and euphemistic compliments in the workplace. This applies among co-workers, but specifically to those on the other side of the counter, ticket order, phone line, or restaurant menu. My point being: Please. Do. Not. Hit. On. Me. At. Work.

Every day I go to work, I walk through the front doors and take note of the signs designed to make the lives of customers and co-workers more efficient.

“Garbage goes HERE."
“Recycling goes THERE.”
“No, we do not have a public restroom.”
“Employees MUST WASH HANDS.”

Missing from that series of signs and labels is one that says:

“If I am serving you, that does not mean you are entitled to sexually harass me from across the counter. If I am nice to you that does not mean you are invited to pay me awkward compliments, ask me about my plans after work, or inquire about my name and age.”

Yesterday evening, while I was ARM DEEP IN GARBAGE attempting to push down and condense customers' cups and cones and bottles, dawned in bright lavender Crocs and a pair of too-short pants, a man came up to me and began having a conversation. Previously I had made him a cappuccino, and not only did he refuse eye contact, but he didn’t even say thank you. I didn’t read him to be a particularly nice person, and so the fact that he was standing very close to me, smiling and engaging me in any sort of dialogue was off-putting. Also to preface this, he looked to be around 40-years-old, dressed professionally.

“What’s your name?”
“Doria, sir.”
“Doria. Sounds like a Renaissance princess, very beautiful.”
“I, uh, thanks.”
“No, thank you. I was wondering if I could take you out for a drink tonight?”

I gagged, internally, but if my face didn’t reflect my internal disgust, that would come as a surprise to me. Not knowing what to say, my social anxieties peaking, as I diverted my eyes into the overflowing garbage before me, I said,

“Sir, I am 19 and can’t drink, sorry.”

And then it gets better. Instead of understanding from my writhing body language, indication of my not-yet-twenty age and look of fear, the tears swelling in my eyes, and my eyes making contact with a cup of half-eaten ice cream, he said, reaching out to place a hand on my shoulder,

“Well, I can buy you a drink.”

And that’s when I started crying. Throwing my arms up (yes, literally, as I’ve mentioned my body language has a tendency to read awkward and severely intense), I repeatedly incoherently mumbled no, no, no, no, no, my breathing heavy and choking, and ran into the back. I frantically asked one of my much older, larger, and intimidating male coworkers to please fix the garbage situation. The situation left me shook for the rest of the night. While I tried to convince myself that I was tired, perhaps so tired that I let the situation get the best of me, I can recognize the fact that regardless of my sleep schedule, I should never have had to deal with that in the first place.

Earlier that day, a younger — though still much older than me — man came up to the counter and talked to me for ten minutes.

“Are you a student?”
“Yes.”
“At NYU?”
“At Hunter College.”
“OHhh, I go there too!”
“Oh yeah?” I said, again, brimming with social anxieties, “What’s your major?”
“It’s, um, it’s complicated.”

It’s complicated? I questioned his words in my head. The only way it could have been complicated was if he, in fact, didn’t have a major, because he, in fact, wasn’t a student at Hunter College, and was, in fact, using this as a conversation piece to then inquire about my: age, general interests, if anyone had ever told me how beautiful my eyes were, and if I was working all day. He later tried to flag me down while I was serving someone else, and like I’ve done to others in the past, I feigned severe concentration and business, implying through hand motions and a visage of false sadness that I "can’t talk right now, sorry !!! :("

I am 19. I am working so that I can buy groceries, pay my bills, and buy my MetroCard. I am not working with the interest of meeting new men to have drinks with. I pull my hair back and tuck my shirt in so that my clothes and hair stay out of the ice cream, not so that men can compliment and comment on my general appearance. What the men behind the counter don’t understand is that I am there strictly to make my money and go home, and that behind my smile and behind my scripted smiling and small-talk about ice cream and the weather, I am a young, driven college student with miserable social skills and an inability to speak up when treated in a way that makes me uncomfortable. Vulnerable as I may be, standing before you ready to accommodate your every need, I am still human and do not deserve to be treated like a servant to your every whim, except ice cream desires and extra-hot almond lattes (in which case, yes, in my job description I am in fact a slave to that service).

Women, men, anyone working at their job, should be recognized as feeling, human, individuals, who shouldn’t have to deal with cat-calling, date inquiries, number inquiries, age inquiries, relationship status inquiries, etc. If you want to know how I am doing today without being uncomfortable and disingenuous, please do so, I’d be happy to let you know. If you have the phrase “honey” naturally built into your vocabulary, so that it doesn’t sound unnatural and creepy coming out of your mouth, say it to me, but also say it to all of my male and female co-workers.

I am an individual when I take off my work hat and leave my job, this is not to be forgotten. Behind the counter, I should be treated in the same way as my mid-twenties male coworkers and my pregnant manager: with respect and a professional attitude. If you don’t think I would say it to you, do not say it to me. I am brave when it comes to making 2 milkshakes at once or executing a 3-scoop sugar cone, but socially I am far from adventurous and, while you may not know that, you shouldn’t have to test me to find out.