"Take a picture, it lasts longer," I said to a man who was sitting down, just a few feet away from me, as he looked me up and down in Panera Bread after work. I had just gotten off a four hour shift, painting watercolor portraits of individual interpretations of Jesus with preschoolers. The last thing I needed was for a bearded man to stare me down as I struggled to put up my keys, find my "MyPanera" card, or a few spare dollars, or maybe that gift card mom sent me, all the while trying not to look like I'm having a hot flash (it's not menopause quite yet).

So when he looked taken aback, it was all I could do not to dig my heels into the tiled floor and disrupt the quiet ambiance of my favorite restaurant to give him a strict talking to about how not to look at a woman. Do I look nice today? Do you like my dress and the paint in my hair? Or the way I probably smell like small children? The way my hair is all messed up? Did you know that, underneath these boots, I'm wearing socks that don't match because I woke up ten minutes before I was supposed to be hanging up winter coats, handing out lemonade and giving out morning hugs? Is there any reason for your eyes to be staring at me right now, when I'm just trying to get through the day?

I'm not bragging. I'm not that pretty of a girl. Trust me, there are girls much more attractive than me. And I also don't dress like some girls I know. I get uncomfortable when my cleavage is showing, or my shirt doesn't cover my leggings in the rear-end area.

But to some men, I'm just a nice rack and some tiny "cakes." (And yes, that's actually been said to me before; feel free to stop and roll your eyes.) Please don't interpret this as "whining" about how attractive I am and how I get hit on all the time. That's not what it is. Because lots of girls experience this.

My article is more a description of how I feel when I'm hit on (without really being hit on) in public, when I'm not even trying. It's the story of how a 20-year-old college girl gets harassed by her employers and professors, whistled at by the many construction workers at UT and harassed by groups of men who think it's their duty to make me feel "valued" in public.

PSA: Whistling at me and telling me I have nice "cakes" does not make me feel valued.

It makes me feel embarrassed. When I hang out with preschoolers for an entire morning, and then go to Panera to get some coffee to perk me up, please do not give me a three-times-over glance (or even a once-over) and then look shocked when I say something to you in response.

What? Do you think that I don't have a mouth? I can't say anything back? You're allowed to harass me, stare at me and yell inappropriate things at me, but I'm just supposed to keep walking? That's why you keep doing it. Because you get away with it. Because no one puts you in your place and tells you that that's no way to treat a woman.

Think I'm cute? Offer to buy me coffee. Ask to sit down and talk to me. Inquire as to why I have paint in my hair and find out who I am. That's the way I want to be valued.

So, ladies: the next time someone tells you that your rack is exquisite and your cakes are dainty (I'm hoping they don't, but they probably will), turn back around and tell them to get themselves in check. Tell them they're acting like a middle schooler with raging hormones, begging for a woman's attention in the hopes that they'll get laid. And furthermore, say that a lady (such as yourself) doesn't date little boys. Then scoff, and tell them to grow the hell up, and that you don't have time for their childish acts or their pleads for attention. Proceed to strut away, knowing you've done the right thing: you stood up for yourself. It's really all we can do in today's world.