It started early one morning in a crowded airport. It was bright and early and the time was 6:30. As I stood at the counter waiting to be checked in, an older man walked up to me and said, “You are a very beautiful and sexy woman. I’d give it to you.” He paused a moment, and then added, “You take care of yourself, okay?” Then he walked away before I could even register what he said.

I remember standing in the same spot with my feet cemented to the ground wishing I could run. Maybe he didn't mean anything by it, I thought. Maybe he wanted to make someone’s day better. But the thing is, he hadn’t. I stood there feeling objectified and scared. Why had a man who looked nearly twice my age want to, in his words, “give it to me?” What did that even mean?

With my mind reeling, I wondered why it was socially acceptable, and almost inevitable, for a grown man to hit on someone noticeably younger than himself simply because he can. His comment didn’t make me feel good about myself; in fact, it did the exact opposite. I felt dirty, almost as if I wanted to run into the shower and shake off his words. What gives this man the right to stand there and calmly objectify me?

After returning to campus, I grabbed some food with my friends at our usual place. At first, nothing was unusual. Then the workers began to recognize us and remembered our orders, which seemed friendly enough. Gradually, that began to change. They began to talk to us. The cashier told me I looked pretty that day, and asked me what my name was. The employees began to refer to me by “Miss Teenage Runaway,” since one week I wore a sweatshirt with those words embroidered across the front. At the time, I didn't think anything of it, they were being nice. As this happened week after week, my friends and I began to feel disturbed. The workers confirmed our orders, but started talking about us instead of talking to us. Instead, we sat in our seats unsure of how to react. I stopped ordering and would avoid the counter altogether, but one of the employees would still walk up to me, smile and say hello, even though I was attempting to avoid all contact. Another employee called out at my group of friends every time we walked in, even when he wasn’t working at the counter.

One day, I arrived later than my friends. When I walked in, the workers collectively cheered and asked where I had been, despite the fact I was deliberately looking away from the counter. My friends told me that the other employees had called the cashier “Old” Dirtbag, referring to another one of my sweatshirts, which reads “Teenage Dirtbag.” We haven’t been back again since.

Maybe these guys thought this was all a joke, but I didn't find anything remotely humorous about it. On a weekly basis I was objectified by something I wore, while a man twice my age noticed my comings and goings. I was, and still am, deeply disturbed by this. A group of men stood around discussing me, and I wasn’t even there.

Here’s the thing about compliments: they’re supposed to make you feel good. Everything these men said about me did the opposite: their words only made me feel smaller. They used their words to reduce me to my appearance, but what if these men considered that I’m more than that? They didn’t stop to consider that I could be the head on my shoulders, the thoughts that run through my head, the books I read, the lyrics I listen to or the pieces of myself I give to those I love.

What if they had considered that I am I not so one-dimensional that I can be summed up by one article of clothing I wore?

What if they had considered that now, because of their words, it makes my skin crawl every single time they look at me?

What if.